I wanted to destroy them. Ruin their reputations. Make them pay for what they'd done.
But all that rage collapsed into despair the moment I saw my father's cancer diagnosis.
I begged Ryan. I reminded him of everything my family had done for him—the tuition, the support, the years of generosity. All I asked was that he go through with the wedding as planned.
Just long enough for my father to leave for treatment overseas with peace of mind.
Ryan agreed. But he kept it from Sandra.
At the reception, she drove her car straight at me.
My father threw himself in front of the vehicle.
In his final moments, bleeding and broken, he placed my hand in Ryan's. Take care of her, he whispered. Promise me.
With the world watching—with everyone pointing fingers—Ryan finally stayed by my side.
For a long time after, I drowned in guilt. I had killed my father. That was the only thought I could hold.
I woke screaming in the middle of countless nights. If I hadn't begged Ryan to stay, would my father have been spared the stress that made him sick? If I had never loved Ryan at all, would my father have lived to see me marry? To hold his grandchildren?