I thought I could handle having my stepmother at my wedding. I was wrong.
Diane had spent years undermining my confidence with sly remarks and backhanded compliments. I coped by writing my feelings in a diary, never dreaming she’d one day use it to humiliate me in front of everyone I loved.
But at my wedding reception, she did exactly that. Standing at the microphone, she pulled out my old pink diary—the one I thought was private—and read my most embarrassing childhood entries aloud. The room went silent as my face burned.
Then, my dad stood up. For the first time in 18 years, he didn’t make excuses for her. He took the diary from her hands and told her to leave. “I’m choosing my daughter,” he said.
Later, he apologized for not protecting me sooner. And when I got home from my honeymoon, he’d sent me a new journal—one with a lock, and a promise: “Your words are safe now.”
That night, I wrote my first entry in years: “Sometimes, the people who hurt us most teach us who really loves us.”
