Home Moral Stories Five years after my wife’s de.ath, I took my daughter to my...
Five years after my wife’s de.ath, I took my daughter to my best friend’s wedding – When I saw the bride, my daughter asked me, “Dad, why are you crying?”
FIVE YEARS AFTER MY WIFE’S DEA.TH, MY DAUGHTER AND I ATTENDED MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING. BUT MY WORLD SHATTERED WHEN HE LIFTED THE BRIDE’S VEIL. WHEN MY DAUGHTER WHISPERED, “DAD, WHY ARE YOU CRYING?”, THE BRIDE LOCKED EYES WITH ME AND, IN THAT MOMENT, EVERYTHING FELL APART.
I never intended to show up at that party. My buddy Mark practically had to drag me along, swearing it would “pull me out of this funk.”
I’d been grinding out double shifts all week on the construction site, feeling like my arms had been replaced with slabs of concrete.
“Just one hour,” Mark insisted, ushering me into a downtown apartment. “Then you can go home and be a hermit again.”
Funny how the biggest moments in life sneak up on you when you least expect them.
The place was packed with people who looked like the heaviest thing they’d ever lifted was a cocktail. In my beat-up jeans and faded tee, I felt like I stuck out in the worst way.
And then I saw her — Natalie.
Turns out, she wasn’t supposed to be there either. Later, she told me she’d just stopped by to drop something off for a friend.
For illustrative purpose only
Our eyes met from across the room, and something clicked — that unmistakable spark. I knew, in that instant, I wanted to know her.
“Who’s that?” I asked Mark, nodding her way.
He followed my glance and gave a low whistle. “Natalie. Don’t waste your time, man. Her family owns half the city.”
But I was already making my way over.
She greeted me with a smile that hit me like a freight train.
“I’m Jake,” I said, reaching out a hand.
“Natalie,” she replied, soft but self-assured. Her hand was small but steady in mine. “You look as comfortable here as I feel.”
We ended up talking for hours that night.
She wasn’t what I expected — no trust fund princess attitude, just genuine warmth and curiosity. By the end of the evening, I knew she had her struggles.
“My parents would hate you,” she told me as I walked her to her car, moonlight reflecting on her dark hair.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
She looked at me with eyes that seemed to see right through me. “Probably. But I don’t think I care.”
Six months later, we tied the knot. Her parents didn’t show. They cut her off completely — no inheritance, no family trips, nothing at all.
But Natalie held my hand tightly and said, “I don’t care about the money. All I need is you.”
For illustrative purpose only
And for a time, that really did feel like enough.
We settled into a modest two-bedroom apartment. I worked construction during the day and took night classes in architectural design. Natalie found a job at a neighborhood art gallery. We were content — or at least, I believed we were.
Then Emma came along, and everything shifted.
Natalie’s eyes lost some of their light. Slowly, she started looking back — measuring our life against the one she’d left behind.
“My college roommate just bought a vacation home in the Hamptons,” she mentioned one night as we ate mac and cheese at our tiny kitchen table. Emma was asleep in the crib beside us.
“That’s great,” I said without looking up from the plans I was studying.
“She invited us to visit. I had to tell her we couldn’t afford the trip.”
Her words stung. “We’re doing fine, Nat. Things will get better.”
“When?” she asked sharply. “When Emma goes to college? When we’re retired? I’m tired of waiting for things to ‘get better,’ Jake.”
Our arguments became more frequent.
She hated budgeting and despised our humble life.
“This isn’t what I signed up for,” she’d say.
As THOUGH I’d somehow tricked her. As if love was supposed to pay the bills.
“You knew who I was when you married me,” I reminded her during one particularly brutal fight.
For illustrative purpose onlyBest gifts for your loved ones
“Maybe that was the problem,” she said coldly. “I thought you’d be more.”
The next day, I came home early from work, planning to surprise her with flowers. The apartment was quiet.
Natalie’s suitcase and all her things were gone.
In the crib, I found a note:
“I want a divorce. I’m sorry, but our marriage was a mistake. I left Emma with Mrs. Santiago down the hall. You can keep her.”
I called her phone a hundred times. No answer. I drove to her parents’ mansion, desperate and with wide, wild eyes.
The security guard wouldn’t let me in.
“You’re not welcome here, sir,” he said, almost apologetically.
“Please, I just need to talk to Natalie,” I pleaded.
“Sir, I need you to leave the premises.”
Two days later, the divorce papers arrived. Natalie had not only left — she’d surrende
