It’s quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that lets the echoes of your own worst memories rattle around inside your skull. I never thought I’d be here, telling this, but it’s been festering, a poison in my gut, and I just… I need to get it out.
It all started subtly, like a slow drip that eventually floods the room. My dad had been single for a long time after the divorce. Years. Good years, mostly. We had our rhythm, just us. Then he met someone. He mentioned her casually at first, a friend from his new hiking group. Then it became “her,” then “we,” then “we’re serious.” I was happy for him, truly. He deserved happiness.
Then came the bombshell. Dinner. He was fidgeting with his napkin, a goofy smile on his face. “Son,” he started, “I have some wonderful news.” My heart gave a little flutter of anticipation. Maybe a new job? A trip? “She said yes.” My fork clattered against the plate. He was getting married.
A crying bride | Source: Midjourney
I tried to be excited. I really did. I put on the best fake smile I could muster, congratulated him, asked about the ring. But a cold knot was forming in my stomach. I knew nothing about her. I hadn’t even met her. Who was she?
The next bomb dropped when he introduced us. “Son, this is her.” She stepped out from behind him, beaming. My smile faltered. My breath hitched. She wasn’t just young; she was my age. Exactly my age. The same year. The same graduating class. The same world I inhabited. My dad, nearly fifty, was marrying someone who could have been my roommate.
I choked out a greeting. My dad, oblivious in his lovestruck haze, just clapped me on the back. “See? I told you two would hit it off! You have so much in common!” He laughed, a booming, joyful sound that grated on my nerves. So much in common. That phrase felt like a heavy, lead weight.
The first few months were a blur of forced cheerfulness. My dad, bless his heart, genuinely believed this was wonderful. He kept saying things like, “You two should hang out! Go to a movie! Get coffee!” as if she were a new neighbor who just moved in next door, not his fiancée who was barely older than me.
A stern man wearing a navy suit | Source: Midjourney
It felt… perverse. Every family dinner was an exercise in internal screaming. I watched them across the table, my dad’s hand resting on her knee, her laughing at his jokes, and it felt like I was watching an elaborate play where I was the only one who hadn’t read the script.
I kept my distance. Politely, of course. Always polite. I’d make excuses, work late, have prior engagements. But my dad was persistent. “She really wants to get to know you,” he’d say. “She’s trying really hard, son. Don’t push her away.”
One day, he cornered me. “Look,” he said, his voice softer, “I know this is a bit… unconventional. But I love her. And she’s a wonderful woman. She’s kind. She’s smart. And she’s made me happier than I’ve been in years. Please, for me, just give her a chance. Try to be friends.”
The guilt was overwhelming. He was right. He deserved happiness. And she did seem nice. She always made an effort, asked about my day, remembered little details. She wasn’t malicious. She was just… there. And she was my age.
I started trying. I’d linger a little longer after dinner. I’d engage in the small talk. One evening, my dad had gone to bed early, and it was just us in the living room. She put on a random playlist. An old song came on, a forgotten indie track from years ago. A song I loved. I looked up, surprised, and she caught my eye. She gave a small, knowing smile. “Oh, I love this one!” she whispered, almost conspiratorially.
Police officers standing outside a patrol car | Source: Pexels
A prickle went up my spine. That song… it wasn’t mainstream. It was a deep cut. A band only a specific kind of person would know. A specific kind of person from a specific time. I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, it’s a good one.”
Then another song came on, an even older one. A local band. From our hometown. A band we used to go see in dingy clubs before they got big, before they broke up. A band we used to follow.
My blood ran cold. My heart hammered. No. It can’t be.
I stared at her, really stared. Not as my dad’s fiancée, not as ‘the young one,’ but as a person. The curve of her cheek, the way her hair fell, the slight tilt of her head when she listened intently. The familiar spark in her eyes, even with the years of life etched subtly around them.
“You know,” she said, completely oblivious to the hurricane raging inside me, “your dad is really wonderful. He’s just… so genuine. So kind. I never thought I’d find that again.” She smiled, a gentle, wistful smile.
The world tilted. The air left my lungs. The room started to spin. My dad wanted us to be friends. He wanted us to bond. He wanted us to spend time together.
HE WANTED ME TO BE FRIENDS WITH MY EX-GIRLFRIEND.
Not just an ex-girlfriend. Not just someone I casually dated. No. She was my first love. The one I thought I’d marry. The one I spent years planning a future with. The one who broke my heart into a million pieces when she suddenly, inexplicably, disappeared from my life almost a decade ago.
A judge filling out paperwork | Source: Pexels
The very woman who, for years, haunted my dreams. The woman I never got closure from. The woman whose ghost I’d tried to bury under layers of time and new relationships.
And now, she was sitting in my living room. About to become my stepmother.
I sat there, frozen, the music still playing, the indie band from our past serenading us with memories my dad knew nothing about. My dad, who was sleeping soundly down the hall, blissfully unaware that he was about to marry the very woman who had shattered his son’s heart.
And he wanted us to be friends.
I stood up abruptly. She looked at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked, a genuine concern in her voice that was so achingly familiar.
I just stared at her, the woman I loved, the woman I lost, the woman who was about to be family.
ALL THOSE YEARS. ALL THAT PAIN. AND SHE WAS HERE. WITH HIM. MY DAD.
What do I do? How do I tell him? How do I even begin to explain that the woman he loves, the woman who makes him so happy, is the same woman who ripped my world apart? And more importantly, how do I live with this secret? How do I sit at that wedding? How do I ever look at either of them the same way again?
The quiet in my head turned into a deafening roar. My dad’s innocent request echoed like a cruel joke.
A pot of spaghetti and meatballs | Source: Midjourney
Be friends.
Oh, we had been more than friends. So much more. And now… now she was the one person I could never, ever be honest with again. And neither could she, apparently. The crushing weight of her silence, her deception, hit me like a physical blow. The betrayal was a festering wound, deep and wide, and it was just beginning to truly bleed.
