My Stepmom Gave Me Fake Plane Tickets So I Couldn’t Attend Her and My Dad’s Wedding – She Didn’t See the Ending Coming

Before an embarrassing incident at the airport reveals the truth, Isabel’s soon-to-be stepmother’s offer to pay for her transportation to a destination wedding appears to be a kind gesture. In the aftermath, secrets are revealed, family relationships are put to the test, and one lady discovers the value of speaking up when it counts most.

My father, Jonathan, remarried this month, and I am Isabel, a 23-year-old. Although Patricia, his fiancée, had been present for a few years, we had never truly clicked.

She would be warm in her refined, hostess manner when my dad was around. She occasionally laughed politely at my jokes, made brief remarks about my shoes, and even struck up a conversation about work.

Something changed, though, when we were alone.

Her tone shifted, her grin grew thinner, and she would occasionally insert subtle jabs, brief reminders of my “place,” or seemingly innocuous but targeted questions.

She could easily make me seem paranoid if I confronted her.

It was my dad’s wedding, though. Tension was not going to stop me from being there. Just the two of them and their witnesses were to complete their official registration the day before. The ceremony and reception are scheduled for the afternoon after.

I might have been able to avoid what awaited me on the day of my trip if I had paid attention to that initial feeling of uncertainty.

I reassured myself, “Show up, smile, support Dad, Is,” “Maybe you and Patricia can finally find some common ground.”

Patricia sent me an email approximately one month before to the event.

It said, “Travel Details for All Guests.”

“Oh, boy,” I murmured as I continued to scroll. “Here we go.”

“Since it’s an out-of-state wedding, Jonathan and I have decided to cover the travel costs for all guests. We want to make it easy for everyone to celebrate with us.”

I watched the screen and blinked. It was… giving. and costly.

I sent my dad a text right away.

“Wow, I just saw the email. Thank you so much! That’s really kind, Dad.”

He responded with a heart and a thumbs-up emoji.

Patricia continued by saying that my flight had already been scheduled. There was an e-ticket attached. My name, airline, flight numbers, arrival and departure times, and even a seat assignment all appeared to be accurate.

But I did notice one last line.

“I got a special deal by booking through my travel agent, so please don’t call the airline or make changes. It could mess up the group rate.”

It was the first little warning sign. However, I choose to disregard it. Being “difficult” prior to the wedding was not something I wanted to do. I didn’t want logistics to become a point of contention. I thanked Patricia via text instead.

I had no idea at the time that this “gift” would turn out to be the biggest public disgrace of my life.

“Thank you so much, Patricia! I can’t wait to celebrate.”

She responded with a champagne emoji and a cheerful face.

With work obligations building up, washing that never seemed to stop, and the quest for a dress that looked stunning without giving the impression that I was attempting to outdo the bride, the weeks leading up to the wedding were packed with the typical activities.

Dad sounded lighter than he had in years every time I called him. Even though Dad and I are close, I could sense he was determined for this new chapter to succeed after my parents’ divorce when I was a child.

When he stated, “You’re going to love the venue, Izzy,” one evening, his voice was warm. “They’ve got string lights everywhere. You always loved those when you were little.”

Into the phone, I grinned.

“I remember, all my birthday parties in the backyard. You strung them up even when it rained… It’s one of my favorite childhood memories.”

“You made me do it, Izzy,” he said with a laugh.

I printed the e-tickets and stuffed them in my carry-on, and I also saved Patricia’s email in a folder called Wedding. Flying out the morning of the ceremony, checking into the hotel, changing, and meeting the family in time for pictures was the simple plan.

In order to look put together when I arrived, I even chose the ideal travel dress.

I experienced a mixture of anxiety and exhilaration on the morning of the journey. I rolled up to the self-check-in kiosk with my coffee in one hand and my suitcase in the other. I entered the confirmation code from Patricia’s email along with my name.

Beep.

“NO RESERVATION FOUND.”

I scowled, leaned in, and made another attempt—slower this time. The same message. My gut twisted into a tiny knot of discomfort.

My suitcase was wheeled to the airline desk. Marlene appeared on the agent’s badge.

I would find out at the airport that morning just how far Patricia would go to prevent me from attending her wedding.

She said, “Morning, darling,” “Let’s see what we’ve got here. ID, please?”

I moved it across. Her smile dimmed as she typed and looked at her screen.

Muttering, “That’s strange…”

“What’s strange?” I asked, feeling my heart race. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“This ticket isn’t valid,” she stated, cautiously glancing at me. “There’s no record of you on this flight. Or… any flight today under this booking. Are you sure you made it? Were your details punched in correctly?”

The words didn’t make sense when I looked at her.

“That can’t be right. My stepmom booked it. She sent me the confirmation and everything.”

The gentle words “Ma’am… this isn’t a real confirmation code. It’s been made up,” came from Marlene. “I’m not finding anything under your name here.”

I handed her the printed itinerary and remarked, “That’s strange.” “My stepmom booked it. I’m flying to Denver for a wedding. Today!”

She shook her head, comparing the paper to her screen.

“I’m sorry, but again, this isn’t a valid ticket. The confirmation number doesn’t exist in our system. It’s just random letters. This hasn’t been issued by us or any of our travel agency partners.”

The truth would be unavoidable by the time the airline employees had completed their investigation.

I gave a little, uneasy laugh that didn’t sound like me.

“There has to be a mistake. My stepmom said a travel agent booked it. Maybe it’s under a different code? A group code or something?”

Marlene gave a soft shake of her head.

“If it were a group booking, I’d still see it here. This confirmation number doesn’t match anything in our system,” she said again. “I’m sorry, but I need to call security. We have to treat this as possible ticket fraud.”

“Fraud?” I said, raising my voice above my intended level. “I’m just trying to get to my dad’s wedding. I swear I didn’t… I mean, I’m not—”

“It’s procedure, honey,” she said with a polite hand gesture.

Two airport security guards arrived in a matter of minutes. A tall, composed guy and a woman with a gentler expression, as if she has seen this scene before.

The man said, “Ma’am, could you step over here?”

I could feel every eye on me as I pushed my suitcase aside. “Another scammer,” murmured someone in line, and my face began to heat up.

The man said, “Where did you get this ticket?”

“My stepmom, Patricia,” I introduced myself. “She told me that she and my dad were covering travel costs for all the wedding guests. She emailed me the ticket and said not to call the airline because it would mess up the group rate. I didn’t know it wasn’t real. I have the email as proof, I swear!”

After I thrust the email copy into her palm, the woman looked at it and then back at me.

“It appears that you have been defrauded,” she whispered softly. “And it looks like the scammer is someone you know.”

“So… I can’t get on the flight?” I said, feeling quite sad.

Her words, “Not with that ticket,” “If you still want to go, you’ll need to buy another ticket.”

I said, “Okay, how much is that?”

She looked at her tablet. “Give me a second,” she said. “One way is $800.”

It could as well have been eight thousand bucks instead of eight hundred. In addition to my health insurance, the rent was due the following week.

“I can’t,” I managed to swallow. “I really, really… can’t.”

After taking my statement and giving me a copy of the incident report, they said I may leave.

After wheeling my suitcase to a window-facing bench, I took a seat. One by one, jets soared into the skies outside, transporting strangers to weddings, vacations, and reunions—all of which I was going to miss.

My chest ached from the kind of hurt you can’t quite get rid of, the kind that combines fury and incredulity.

My dad texted me, and my phone chimed.

“Can’t wait to see you later, Izzy.”

After a brief smile, I fixed my gaze on the TV. The ceremony was just a few hours away, but I could give him a call and tell him what had transpired. Furthermore, I had no chance whatsoever of making it. I was unable to pay for it.

He would most likely be in the midst of last-minute pandemonium or family portraits. I didn’t want his wedding day to begin in a panic.

I considered phoning his sister, my aunt Susannah, who is the family truth-teller who speaks up when others are scared to. I typed a message, opened her contact, and then erased it. I typed one more and erased it once more.

It buzzed on my phone.

Patricia’s name appeared on my screen precisely one minute before to the start of the ceremony.

“Oh, you’re really not coming? Too bad, Isabel. At least your dad will know that you ignored our invitation… and that you don’t respect the both of us.”

My fingers were paralyzed as I just stared at it. This was deliberate on her part. This was not misfortune, a mistake, or a dishonest travel agent.

All of this was Patricia’s fault. She wished for me to leave that room.

During the ceremony, a single SMS message might completely upend the day.

I briefly considered blocking her and walked to the airport restroom to cry. But then I imagined my father, looking for me in the crowd while standing at the front under the string lights he had mentioned. and failing to locate me.

I imagined Patricia bending over him, speaking softly, telling him something that sounded plausible but was not true.

No. Not now.

I sent him Patricia’s initial email with the phony ticket attached after opening my inbox. I then included a picture of the incident report that I had received from the airport police. I also snapped a screen grab of the text I had sent to my father, expressing my gratitude to both Patricia and him.

I was positive now that she, not him, had responded to my message.

After a little period of hovering, I typed.

“Dad, I wanted to be there more than anything. I wanted to stand by your side and be right there when you said your vows. Patricia sent me a fake ticket. Airport police got involved. I have the report. I’m so sorry.”

I hit send, preparing to be furious. or, worse, inaction.

My phone rang fifteen minutes later.

Susannah, not Dad.

“Where are you, Izzy?” she said in a quick, quiet voice.

“Still at the airport. Do you know if Dad got my email?”

Her words were, “Oh, he got it, honey,” “Izzy, he went white.He walked away in the middle of his vows. He said that he had to keep his phone on him in case you called. So, when your email came through… he pulled out his phone and showed the groomsmen your text and the police report. He’s calling you.”

My dad’s name came on the screen before I could reply. I changed the call.

“Dad?”

His voice was firm, but I could detect the hard edge he gets when he’s trying to keep his composure in public. “Where are you?” he asked.

My dad would have to leave his own wedding because of what transpired next.

When I said, “Still at the airport,” “I tried, Dad. The ticket wasn’t real. Security got involved. They said it was fraud. I sent you everything.”

He murmured, “I saw, baby,” and I heard a sharp sigh leave his body. “I’m so sorry, Izzy. I should have—”

I said, “It’s not your fault,” without hesitation. I didn’t want him to bear the consequences of what she had done to me.

When he said, “I’ll call you right back,” he hung up.

My aunt Susannah later told me everything I had been missing.

However, after reading the police report and receiving my text, Dad immediately went to Patricia.

My aunt Susannah later told me everything I had been missing.

However, after reading the police report and receiving my text, Dad immediately went to Patricia.

“I was testing her commitment to this family, Jonathan! She never ever tried with me!”

Dad once said, “The only thing you tested was my commitment to you,” without a hint of humor. “And you failed. Miserably.”

He was followed out by half of the guests, mainly Dad’s side. They decided to have an unplanned family meal at a restaurant across the street. I was FaceTimed in by Aunt Susannah. Family members leaned in to give me a “hug” on the screen.

When an aunt responded, “We know you tried, Isabel,”

An uncle added, “We’re glad the truth came out at last.”

Feeling both included and painfully conscious that I was simply pixels on a phone, I nodded and smiled.

Dad called from his car that evening after the visitors had left. Something firmer had replaced the raw edge in his voice.

He said, “I spoke with the venue manager.” “I want to get some money back from this mess.”

“Dad, I don’t want to be the reason your wedding day was ruined,” I replied.

“Baby, Patricia is the reason that everything was ruined,” he responded. “You’re the reason it didn’t become a lie. This would have been a failed marriage. Doomed from the moment we said our vows.”

Stories and calls filled the next two days. According to an uncle, Patricia said I had falsified the report and refused the ticket. According to a cousin, the family remained at the bar and acted as if nothing had occurred.

Dad called again on the second day.

“The lawyer says we can annul it. Since the registration happened the day before the ceremony, and everything else unfolded the next afternoon, we moved fast enough and have proof.”

I surprised myself by telling him I was fine. Although I believed in private, I had been humiliated in public. It was an odd combination that simultaneously makes you want to keep quiet and shout up.

Patricia had no idea how far the consequences of her act would travel in the days that followed.

Although it hadn’t progressed thus far, we found out Patricia had done something akin to a former partner’s adult children. Word got around fast. Her maid of honor and two of her best pals stopped answering her phone.

It seems that most people will not cross the line for you when it comes to falsifying travel documents.

After calling off the honeymoon, Dad rescheduled it as a trip with his daughter.

His words, “We’ll make up for lost time,” were clear.

We had easy chat and a low radio, just like on my school drives. He inquired about my car, apartment, and employment. I asked him whether he ever thought that growing older meant having to relearn boundaries that he should have known.

His response was, “Sometimes,” “And sometimes the boundary isn’t for them… it’s for the version of you that kept trying to be polite while getting hurt.”

I pondered the officer’s remarks and the airport counter.

“Scammed by someone you know…”

And when, during the ceremony, I made the decision to tell Dad the truth. Patricia had anticipated my silent swallowing. She didn’t remember who brought me up.

Dad prepared a family dinner for us when we got home. Finally, he got up, raised a glass of iced tea, and grinned.

“To Isabel, for telling the truth. And to a future where we don’t ignore our instincts just to keep the peace.”

It wasn’t only about me when Dad got up to toast us. It served as a cautionary tale.

Clapping was heard. It felt like the close of a difficult chapter and the beginning of a better one, so I simultaneously sobbed and laughed.

After that, Patricia texted me once, saying, “I never meant to hurt you, Isabel. But you made me look terrible in front of everyone.”

I didn’t respond.

Sometimes the clearest sentence you can write is silence.