At the church, Dad arrived shortly before the ceremony.
He looked at my shoulder support and frowned.
“Try not to draw attention to that,” he whispered.
I stared at him.
Not a word about how I felt.
Not a question about whether I was in pain.
Only concern about appearances.
Something inside me settled.
For the first time, I didn’t feel guilty about setting boundaries.
I finally understood that protecting my own well-being wasn’t selfish.
It was necessary.
The music began.
Guests took their seats.
Daniel waited at the altar.
And I prepared to walk down the aisle.
Dad offered his arm.
For a moment, I considered everything that had happened between us.
All the years I’d helped him.
All the excuses I’d made.
All the times I’d convinced myself that things would eventually improve.
Then I remembered what he’d said in the garage.
