“You’re not married,” my dad cut in.
“The license was never filed. Claire wanted to sign it after the honeymoon. Legally, nothing happened.”
Dylan faltered. “You’re bluffing.”
I stepped forward. “I called the clerk’s office this morning. No license. No processing. Nothing. I checked.”
My father added, “You lost a wife. You lost your job. And you’re not walking away with a cent. You didn’t make a mistake, Dylan. You made a choice. And you chose cruelty.”
He then opened the door. Dylan didn’t argue. He just left, speechless.
Later, I sat in the kitchen while Janelle, our housekeeper, made tomato soup and grilled cheese.
“If I were at the wedding,” she said, “I’d have pushed him into the pool.”
We laughed. And for the first time since that awful moment, I felt safe again.
In the weeks that followed, I picked up my dress from the cleaners. It was clean, but not the same. The fabric had changed—faded, slightly stiff, like a memory trying to disappear.
