My reflection in the mirror stared back at me: a beautiful bride, but a heart full of dread. The question that had haunted me for weeks loomed: with two dads, who would walk me down the aisle?
The white dress felt heavy, suffocating. In the mirror, I looked like a porcelain doll, beautiful but brittle. Inside me, a storm raged. Who would walk me down the aisle?
“Mom,” I blurted, my voice shaky. “I can’t decide.”
Mom, a rock amidst the chaos, offered a gentle, “Kaia, honey, your wedding’s next week.”
“I know, I know. It’s just… I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Mom sighed. “Sweetie, you can’t please everyone. Think about what you want.”
But that was the problem. Did I want tradition? My biological father, Jerry C., kept pushing for the honor. Or did I want the man who’d been there since childhood, my stepfather, Jerry R.?
After days of agonizing, I decided. “Mom, I’ve decided. I want Jerry C. to walk me down the aisle.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but it was fleeting. “Okay, sweetie. If that’s what you want.”
“It just feels right,” I mumbled.
Guilt gnawed at me, but I pushed it down. This was the right choice, right?
