Buckle up. This still doesn’t feel real.
I’m 30. My dad is 61. And about three months ago, he told me he was getting married again.
“To Dana!” he said, all bright-eyed like a teenager. “We’re doing a small wedding. Just close friends and family.”
Dana. Fifty-something. Wears heels like they’re glued to her feet. Talks like she’s always in a sales pitch. And I swear she’s made of 70% Botox and 30% bad vibes.
Now, I never hated Dana. I tried. Really, really tried. I laughed at her jokes—even the ones that made no sense. I ate every dry, overcooked casserole with a smile. I even bought her a nice scarf one Christmas.
She never wore it.
From the beginning, she made it clear I wasn’t welcome. Not outright, of course. That would’ve been too honest. But in a thousand little ways.
Every time Dad and I were getting close again—like sharing old memories or laughing at stupid movies—Dana would get weird. She’d start coughing. Or say she had a migraine. Once, she actually claimed she had food poisoning twice in the same week.
My dad would say, “She’s just sensitive, honey. You know how her stomach is.”
Yeah, sensitive to not being the center of attention.
She treated me like I was a ghost, not a daughter. Not even a person. Just something left over from a life she didn’t want to deal with. Still, I showed up. Every holiday. Every birthday. Every Sunday call.
Then came the big call from Dad.
“We’ve got a date!” he said. “Next month! Dana and I are tying the knot!”
“That’s great, Dad,” I said, fake-smiling through the phone. “I’m happy for you.”
“She wants to keep it small. You know how she is. Just close people.”
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever makes you both happy.”
I never got an invite. No text. No card. Nothing from Dana. But I didn’t make a thing of it. I figured she was just being… her. I still wanted to support my dad.
I bought a simple powder blue dress. Matched it with some low heels. Took Friday off work so I could drive down early and help out—maybe set up chairs or something.
Two weeks before the wedding, Dad called.
“Dana says you should stay with us,” he told me. “No need to waste money on a hotel.”
That gave me pause.
“She said that?” I asked.
“Yeah, she insisted. Said she wanted to make it easy for you.”
Huh. That didn’t sound like Dana. But I didn’t argue.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there Friday night.”
And I was. I got there a little after seven.
Dana opened the door and smiled, sort of.
“Long drive?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I said, dragging my bag inside.
She handed me a mug of lukewarm tea and pointed toward the guest room.
“Bathroom’s down the hall. Don’t wake us—we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
She disappeared into her room. Dad came out a few minutes later in sweatpants and slippers.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “Glad you made it.”
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We stayed up chatting. Just the two of us on the couch, reminiscing about road trips and the time our old car broke down in Kentucky.
Around midnight, I went to bed feeling good. Hopeful, even. I had no idea what was waiting for me.
I woke up the next morning feeling a little nervous, sure, but mostly excited to see my dad get married. Whatever I thought of Dana, this day was still important to him.
I rolled over and grabbed for my phone.
Gone.
Weird. Maybe I left it on the kitchen counter? I vaguely remembered plugging it in before going to bed. No big deal.
I got up, put on my dress and makeup, and padded into the kitchen. Nothing.
No phone. No coffee. No breakfast smells. No sounds. The whole place felt… dead.
I checked the key hook. Empty. My stomach dropped a little.
I walked to the front door and turned the handle. It didn’t budge. The deadbolt was locked. I tried the back door. Same thing. Then the windows. Every single one was locked tight.
I called out, “Dana?”
Nothing.
I knocked on her bedroom door. Silence.
Louder knock. “Dana? Hello?”
Still nothing.
That’s when I saw it. A bright yellow Post-it sitting neatly on the kitchen counter. Written in Dana’s handwriting with curly, try-too-hard letters:
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just not your day.”
I stood there, frozen. She locked me in. She took my phone. My keys. My voice. Like I was some kind of problem she could shut behind a door.
For a minute, I didn’t know what to do. My hands were shaking. My chest was tight. Then came the rage. I yelled her name. Pounded on the walls. Paced like a lunatic. All dressed up in powder blue, with nowhere to go.
Mascara already smudging under my eyes, I stared at the door like I could will it open.
And then—thank God—I remembered something.
She took my phone. She took my keys. But she didn’t take my Apple Watch.
I tapped the screen like my life depended on it. The tiny keyboard felt impossible, but I made it work…
I managed to send a quick message to my cousin, who was already at the venue helping set things up. Just three words:
“Dana locked me.”
I hit send and prayed it went through. Within a minute, the watch buzzed.
Cousin: WHAT?! Where are you??
My fingers flew across the tiny screen. “At Dad’s. She took my phone. Doors locked.”
There was a pause, then: “On my way.”
My cousin was a godsend. She showed up fifteen minutes later, banging on the front door so hard I thought the neighbors would call the cops. When no one answered, she sprinted around back, found an old gardening shovel, and pried one of the windows open just enough to pop the latch.
I practically fell into her arms. My dress was wrinkled, my eyeliner was ruined, and my hands were still shaking, but I was free.
“Let’s go,” she said. “We’re not missing this wedding.”
We sped across town, my heart hammering the whole way.
When we arrived, the ceremony had just started. Dana was standing at the altar, smug as ever in her white gown, holding my father’s hands like she’d already won.
But she hadn’t counted on me walking in.
Because I didn’t just crash the wedding. I walked straight down the aisle—powder blue dress, mascara stains and all—and every single person turned to watch.
“Dad,” I said loudly, my voice shaking but clear. “Before you say ‘I do,’ you need to know what Dana did this morning.”
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The tiny keyboard felt impossible, but I made it work. My fingers trembled as I texted my cousin, who lived just twenty minutes away:
“Help. Dana locked me in the house. Took my phone + keys. Can’t get out.”
I hit send, praying the message would go through. My cousin, thankfully, was a tech-obsessed genius who always wore his Apple Watch, too. Within seconds, I saw those glorious three little dots appear.
“WTF?? On my way.”
I slumped against the kitchen counter, half-relieved, half still boiling with rage. I imagined Dana at the wedding, strutting in her designer dress, smiling smugly at the empty seat where I should’ve been. She thought she’d won. She thought she’d erased me from my own father’s life.
Well. She had no idea what was coming.
About twenty minutes later, I heard frantic knocking at the back door, followed by my cousin’s voice:
“Open up!”
“I can’t! It’s locked from the outside!” I shouted.
“Stand back!” he yelled.
One loud crash later, and the glass pane of the back door shattered. My cousin climbed in, out of breath but grinning. “Let’s go ruin a wedding.”
We raced to his car. Powder-blue dress wrinkled, makeup streaked, hair falling out of its pins—I didn’t care. If anything, I looked like a storm, and honestly, that felt right.
By the time we reached the church, the ceremony had already started. I could see Dana gliding down the aisle, her Botoxed smile wide, her claws firmly hooked into my father’s arm.
I didn’t hesitate. I pushed the doors open so hard they banged against the walls. Gasps filled the room. Heads turned. Dana froze mid-step, color draining from her face.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, my voice carrying like a blade through the silence. “I would’ve been here sooner, but someone LOCKED ME in the house and STOLE my phone and keys.”
The crowd erupted in whispers. My father’s jaw dropped. “What?” he asked, staring at me like I had just dropped a bomb.
Dana tried to laugh it off. “Oh, she’s exaggerating—”
“Really?” I held up the Post-it, still crumpled in my hand. “‘Don’t take it personally. It’s just not your day.’ Recognize the handwriting?”
Gasps again. A murmur rippled through the guests. My dad turned slowly to Dana, his face pale. “Tell me this isn’t true.”
She stammered, her mask slipping. “I—she—she’s lying—”
I cut her off. “Check my Apple Watch messages. I had to text for help to even get out. Who does that to their fiancé’s daughter? Who does that to FAMILY?”
And then, like fate had been waiting for this exact moment, the priest cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps we should pause until the truth is clarified.”
My dad didn’t need clarification. His face said it all. He stepped back, away from Dana, like she was poison.
And in that moment, I knew—her “perfect day” was over.
