The wedding was beautiful. It rained that morning. There'd been chaos. And John. But once it started, I didn't think about him, not even once. It was like all the darkness got pushed to the edges and joy took center stage.
There were about 500 people there. Yes, really. Five. Hundred. Half of them were related to the bride or the groom, and the rest might as well have been. Because that's what it felt like. A massive, chaotic, love-drenched family reunion.
My dad, in true dad fashion, built a whole dance floor himself, just for the occasion. He hauled lumber and sweat equity like it was a wedding gift, and it turned out so well the venue asked if they could keep it. And honestly? It felt right. Like we left a piece of ourselves behind, something joyful and solid.
And oh, did we dance.
The kind of dancing that only happens at small-town weddings. Where you know every other person on the floor and nobody cares how ridiculous you look. The wobble, the two-step, the electric slide. We laughed, we shouted lyrics off-key, we spun in circles like we were ten years old again. I danced with cousins I hadn't seen in years, with classmates from school, with my little sister and my baby boy in my arms.
There was fried chicken so crispy it cracked when you bit it, and mashed potatoes that should've come with a warning label. There were casseroles made by aunties who had perfected their recipes over generations. I ate too much and didn't regret a bite. And the cake, don't get me started on the cake. Layers of cream and soft vanilla and a frosting that tasted like it had been whipped by angels.
People smiled until their cheeks hurt. Hugs lasted longer than usual. Tears fell, but only the good kind.
My sister glowed like sunlight on water. Rim couldn't stop staring at her like she was the only person in the world. And honestly, she was. That night was hers.
And all these years later? They're still married. Still best friends. Still building something beautiful together.
It was a good day. One of the best. And no matter how much came before or after, that day belonged to joy.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･✧･ﾟ:
I wish I could say I walked into the house with steel in my spine, handed him divorce papers, and told him I was taking the baby and the blender and leaving him with nothing but shame. But that's not how trauma works.
But that's not how real life works. Not when you're trauma-bonded. Not when your brain is still untangling lies from love.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･✧･ﾟ:
My uncle Max, drove me home. He lived nearby and didn't want me going back alone, which was probably the only reason I got in the car at all. I was shaking the whole ride, clinging to the quiet, praying for strength I didn't yet have. When we got there, he walked me in and sat down in the living room like a quiet bodyguard, just in case.
And John?
John launched straight into the performance.
Oh, it was a show. And not the small community-theater kind. This was Oscar-worthy, full-blown Les Misérables levels of drama. The tears were immediate. Big, open sobs, eyes wet, voice cracking, body trembling just enough to look genuine but not over the top. He didn't start with anger this time. He started with sorrow. With heartbreak.
With regret.
He wept, saying he was only there to support me. That he'd just wanted to be part of the wedding, to be with his family. He didn't know things would escalate. He claimed my aunt came at him like a rabid dog, screaming, cussing, trying to fight. Said my dad attacked him completely unprovoked. Said he had been scared.
"I never wanted it to go that far," he said, hands shaking. "I didn't come there to cause problems. I just wanted to see my wife and my son."
He said it was all just a giant misunderstanding. That he was misunderstood. Mistreated. The real victim.
And here's the worst part.
It was convincing.
Because like all good manipulators, he wove just enough truth into the web to make it believable. Yes, my aunt had come out swinging. Yes, she had gotten in his face. Yes, my family had drawn lines in the sand. But that wasn't the whole truth. Not even close. That wasn't the part that mattered.
But he knew how to sell it. He knew how to twist it. Wrap those tiny pieces of truth in soft, sad lies and serve them warm. He didn't just apologize. He pleaded. Promised. Said he knew he needed help. Said he was willing to go to counseling— marriage counseling, anger management, anything I wanted.
Said he wanted to do the work. Said he'd already looked into it before the wedding, that he was going to bring it up after. He said he wanted to be better for me. For Ashton.
That he loved me.
That he didn't want to lose his family.
Uncle Max nodded slowly beside me. He looked at John. Then at me. Then back again. I could tell he didn't know who to believe. That alone made me want to scream.
And me?
I wanted to believe it.
I needed to.
Because if this was just a misunderstanding, if this was just a bad weekend or a bad decision, then maybe —maybe— my whole life wasn't spiraling out of control. Maybe I wasn't stuck. Maybe I hadn't married someone dangerous. Maybe I was just overreacting. Maybe I could still fix it.
That's the trap.
When the manipulation is done right, you don't even realize you're walking into it until the door clicks shut behind you.
He was good. So good.
Good enough to fool my uncle.
Good enough to fool me.
And that's why I stayed.Not for days. Not for weeks.For two more years.
Because that's what manipulation does. It doesn't trap you in one big moment.It convinces you, slowly, that there's still something worth saving.