Attending my daughter’s wedding was supposed to be a joyful moment, but facing my ex-husband and his new wife turned everything upside down. Old wounds resurfaced, and new betrayals came to light. I thought I’d left the past behind, but this trip forced me to confront truths I wasn’t ready to face.
I was thrilled that my daughter was getting married.
It felt surreal to think she was already so grown-up, stepping into a new chapter of her life.
I couldn’t help but smile as I imagined her walking down the aisle in her wedding dress, radiant and full of joy.
She deserved every happiness, and her fiancé, Josh, seemed like a good man. He treated her with respect and kindness—qualities that were far too rare. I was proud of her for choosing wisely.
She didn’t make the mistake I had.
That thought brought a pang of bitterness. My own marriage to Phil had been a disaster, a lesson in everything love shouldn’t be.
Phil was the reason I wasn’t sure if I should attend the wedding. The idea of seeing him again made my stomach churn.
Worse, he’d be there with his new wife, a younger version of me—literally.
Her name was Cynthia too.
It felt like Phil had taken a twisted pleasure in marrying a woman who shared my name, as if he wanted to rub salt in old wounds.
Life with Phil had been suffocating. I was like a bird in a gilded cage, admired but trapped, expected to smile and play the perfect wife while he paraded his affairs right under my nose.
I’d been the last to know, the naive fool. When I finally caught him, my heart shattered, but I didn’t hesitate to file for divorce.
The settlement was cruel, leaving me with almost nothing.
It had been only six months since the divorce, and here he was, living a picture-perfect life while I was still struggling to rebuild mine.
The island wedding was Mila’s dream. As my plane landed, I tried to focus on her happiness.
A driver met me at the airport and took me to the resort. The moment I stepped out of the car, I saw them.
Phil and his new wife stood near the entrance, their laughter echoing through the air.
I froze. Even with their backs to me, I knew it was him. My heart raced.
At the reception desk, I gave my name.
“Cynthia, mother of the bride,” I said, my voice steady despite the lump in my throat.
Phil must have recognized my voice. He turned, his arm draped casually around her.
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