I had dreamed of meeting my daughter Kira’s fiancé, imagining a perfect introduction. But when I opened the door and saw Marcus and his family, my excitement vanished. They were Black. This wedding couldn’t happen.
Bradley, my husband, watched as I rushed to prepare dinner. When the doorbell rang, I forced a smile, but inside, I panicked. In the kitchen, I confronted Kira. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
She sighed. “Because I knew how you’d react.”
Bradley was blunt. “My daughter isn’t marrying a Black man.”
Kira’s eyes blazed. “That’s not your decision!”
Dinner was tense, but I found an unexpected ally—Marcus’s mother, Betty. “They’re not a good match,” she whispered.
I agreed. From that moment, Betty and I schemed to break them up—criticizing wedding plans, arranging “harmless” meetings with others. But our efforts backfired. Instead of pulling apart, Kira and Marcus grew stronger.
The night our scheme was exposed, Kira’s fury was undeniable. “You think you’re different, but you and Betty are exactly the same—controlling, manipulative.”
Marcus stood firm. “If you can’t accept us, don’t come to the wedding.”
A week passed in silence. On the night of the rehearsal dinner, Bradley got dressed. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“To my daughter’s wedding,” he said simply.
I couldn’t stay behind. Outside the restaurant, I found Betty, watching through the window.
“I want to apologize,” she admitted.
I sighed. “Me too.”
Then, she smirked. “I want to see my future grandson.”
“Granddaughter,” I corrected.
We laughed, already arguing over grandchildren who didn’t exist yet. Looking at Kira and Marcus, I realized—nothing mattered more than their happiness.
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