The day I heard that my ex-husband was getting remarried, my stomach dropped. It had been three years since our divorce, yet the wound still felt raw, as if time had done little to heal it.
I told myself I had moved on, that I was stronger now, that I no longer cared. But when I learned who he was marrying, a storm of emotions rose up inside me. Friends whispered the news in hushed voices:
“He’s marrying a woman in a wheelchair. Can you believe it? Poor thing.”
The words stirred something dark in me. Instead of compassion, I felt a twisted sense of pride. I thought, “So this is where his choices led him? He left me only to end up with someone who cannot even walk beside him.”
That selfish thought lit a fire in me. I was determined to attend the wedding, not to celebrate, but to show off. To shine brighter. To prove that I was the woman he should have never let go.
Preparing to Be Seen
That night, I stood in front of my mirror for hours. I wanted to be unforgettable.
I slipped into a crimson dress that clung to me like a second skin. My hair, carefully curled, fell in perfect waves. My makeup was flawless, every detail calculated to dazzle.
In my mind, I rehearsed the moment: me walking into the wedding hall, heads turning, whispers spreading, and comparisons drawn. I would be radiant, powerful, untouchable. And she—confined to her wheelchair—would pale in my shadow.
It was cruel. It was vain. But at the time, it felt like justice.
The Grand Entrance
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