That night, back in my childhood bedroom, I didn’t cry.
I just stared at the thank-you cards we’d written in advance and thought, How did we get here?
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Dylan: “You seriously can’t take a joke? You’re so uptight.”
I stared at the screen, then blocked his number without replying.
The next morning, my dad asked me to be present for something. “You deserve to hear it for yourself,” he said.
Dylan had been working at my father’s firm for over a year, in a junior role.
My dad had offered him grace, believing in the man I chose. But that grace had limits.
Around 10:00 a.m., Dylan arrived at our house. He walked in with that same confident smirk and addressed my dad: “You can’t fire me. This is personal.”
“It is personal,” my dad replied. “And also professional. You broke the trust this company depends on.”
Dylan scoffed. “You’d end my career over a prank? We’re married now. That gives me a legal stake in—”
