She Opened My Diary at My Wedding — I Never Expected My Stepmother to Do This
My Stepmother Read My Childhood Diary Aloud at My Wedding to Humiliate Me
My dad pleaded with me to invite my stepmother to my wedding. I convinced myself it was only one day, and I put up with her cruelty for years.
I ought to have been more aware. She didn’t waste her opportunity to injure you, unlike other individuals who wait for it. She took the microphone and read my diary from childhood.
Lindsay is my name. I married Ethan, who has been my rock for six years, last month. I’m twenty-eight years old. He is aware of all my wounds, but the most significant one is that of my stepmother, Diane.
One evening, while we were finalizing our guest list, he hovered his finger over Diane’s name and asked, “You sure you want to invite her?”
Her name caught my attention till the letters became hazy. “If she didn’t exist, Dad would be devastated. He pleaded. It was horrible.
“Linds, today is our day. Not his.
I gave him a forehead kiss. “I’ve worked with her for eighteen years. I can put up with her for another day.”
God, I was such a fool.
Just a year after Mom’s passing, at the age of ten, Diane came into my life. Diane, with her pressed pantsuits and calculating smiles, seemed like a life raft to Dad, who was drowning in grief with two children.
Perhaps she was for Dad. But for my sister and me? When we were kids, she was the slow poison.
At dinner, she would touch my shoulder and suggest, “Lindsay, sweetie, maybe leave the second helping for someone who exercises.”
Or: “That ensemble is… courageous. I respect girls that don’t give a damn about what other people think.
I heard her say over the phone when I was thirteen: “John’s daughter is going through a bad period. She inherited her mother’s side, poor thing. Have you observed the amount of food she consumes in a single serving?
These facts were unknown to Dad. Or he acted as though he didn’t. His tired eyes would darken as I tried to inform him.
Lindsay, she’s making an effort. Why don’t you try?”
So I penned my true feelings in a small pink diary with a thin lock and learned to be quiet. I pushed myself to stay alive till I could get away.
And I did, with two suitcases and a scholarship, at the age of 18. For years, I stayed away, wearing an armor made of distance and therapy when I attended required holidays.
“You’ve changed!” Diane’s brows narrowed over her wine glass as she recalled last Christmas.
I said, “That’s what growing up does,” and when she turned away first, I felt a tiny success.
On the morning of my wedding, my sister Rachel steadied her fingers on my quivering back while she zipped me into my gown.
She said, “You look like Mom,” and we both pretended that my tears were merely pre-wedding anxiety.
When Dad knocked on the door and saw me, his eyes widened.
“Oh my! You’re stunning, my dear.”
I briefly saw the father I knew before grief drained him of his soul. And before Diane’s jagged edges filled those gaps.
“Dad? “Are you certain… regarding Diane?”
His grin wavered. “She pledged to behave well. Isn’t it only one day?
Unconfident in my voice, I nodded. One day. For a day, I could endure anything.
Then he offered his arm and said, “Ready?”
I inhaled deeply. “Ready!”
The ceremony was flawless. The twilight turned everything gold, and Ethan’s voice cracked as he spoke his vows. Diane didn’t exist during those times; it was just Ethan, myself, and commitments that seemed inviolable.
I wore my second dress, which was straightforward and comfortable for dancing in, to the reception. Ethan was beaming like he had won the lotto when he saw me.
“You’re my wife!” he exclaimed repeatedly, as if he was still in shock.
“And you’re stuck with me now!” Feeling lighter than I have in weeks, I teased.
We ate expensive little appetizers, danced, and I nearly forgot to keep an eye out for Diane’s next move.
The remarks then began.
Rachel was the first to share stories that brought tears to everyone’s eyes. Then came my best friend Mia, who raised her glass to “the man who finally got her to use her turn signals and the woman who taught me how to parallel park.”
The head table then started to move. Diane grabbed the microphone and stood up.
“What’s happening?” I said to Dad in a whisper.
He scowled. “I don’t know.”
“I’m Lindsay’s stepmother,” Diane said, her voice echoing clearly across the room. I am aware that I am not her mother. However, I’ve enjoyed seeing her mature from a young child into this beautiful bride.
My skin pricked at something in her tone.
“When Lindsay was young, she was quite the writer.” Diane reached for her black purse with a smile. “And I thought it would be special to share some of her early work.”
I spotted my childhood journal when she carefully took something out. It was pink and tattered around the edges, with a small silver lock that hadn’t truly kept anyone out.
My blood froze.
“Where did you get that?” I muttered, but she had already resumed her conversation.
“We’ll see… ah, this one’s good. March 7th: I detest the way my thighs appear in the gym. Everyone probably finds me repulsive.
Ethan’s hand grew tighter around my as a perplexed mutter echoed across the gathering.
“Or this gem?!” Diane turned the pages and went on. April 15th: I believe Ethan has feelings for Jessica. When she’s around, who would stare at me?
I was unable to breathe or move. Even though it was about a different Ethan—a crush from middle school—the humiliation was the same.
She continued, “And my personal favorite,” in a falsely charming voice. On June 9th, I rehearsed kissing my hand. Before someone wants to give me a proper kiss, I’m probably going to die.”
The silence was broken by a few uneasy giggles. Uncomfortable and perplexed laughter, not hateful ones. However, they all felt sharp.
My legs trembled as I stood. “STOP!”
Diane gave an innocent blink. “Come on, it’s adorable! Everybody has awkward childhood memories.
“It was confidential. You looked through my belongings. Something wasn’t yours, and you took it. “How dare you?”
“Don’t be so sensitive, Lindsay. It’s only mildly enjoyable.
“Is it fun for you?” Ethan interrupted, standing next to me. “Is humiliating her at her wedding what you consider fun?”
It was difficult to break the ensuing silence.
My father then gently got up from his chair. His steady stride seemed to reverberate as he approached Diane. When he got to her, he didn’t speak louder. He didn’t have to.
He said, “Give me the diary,” and held out his hand.
“John, it’s just a joke.” Diane paused her smile. “Everyone’s taking this way too seriously.”
“The diary. NOW.”
She rolled her eyes and gave it over. “God, you’re all so dramatic.”
After taking the diary, Dad gave Diane a look I had never seen him make before.
“We’re done.”
“Excuse me?”
I’d like you to leave the house after this wedding. I’ve spent too much time making excuses. Not today.
Diane’s cheeks turned red. “You’re choosing this… this tantrum over our marriage?”
“No. At last, I’m picking my daughter.
His eyes were moist as he turned to face me. “I apologize, Lindsay. I ought to have kept you safe. I ought to have noticed.
I let out the tears I had been suppressing. She stormed out moments later, bringing her cloud of stress with her, but not because of Diane. But since my father finally realized the truth after eighteen years.
Ethan’s arms remained steady around my waist while I sobbed.
He whispered into my hair, “You okay?”
I wiped my eyes and nodded. “Better than okay.”
Sensing the atmosphere, the DJ began playing our song, “Higher Love.”
“Dance with me,” said Ethan.
Slowly, more people joined us as we shifted to the middle of the floor. Rachel and Dad. Mia with her partner. Our family and friends surrounded us in a protective circle.
“You know what’s funny?” As we swayed, I said. “She thought she was destroying our wedding.”
“And?”
“I think she just made it unforgettable.”
Ethan twirled me beneath his arm as he chuckled. “My wife is that. identifying the bright side of a tornado.
“Your wife!” I spoke it again, tasting it. “I like how that sounds.”
“Well done! because you will always be trapped with it.
Dad later discovered me picking at leftover cake by the dessert table after the most of the guests had left and the evening was coming to an end.
“I’ve failed you,” he declared. “For years.”
I gave him a close look, taking in the gray at his temples, the new lines around his eyes, and the sorrow he carried on his shoulders.
“Now, Dad, you’re here. That’s a beginning.
Tears were streaming down his face as he nodded. “I filed for divorce.”
“What? “Are you serious?”
“I’ve been aware that something wasn’t quite right for some time. I simply couldn’t handle it. I was unable to acknowledge that I had made another error.
I accepted his familiar, hard hand. “You know what Mom used to say about mistakes?”
He grinned despite his tears. “They’re just detours, not dead ends.”
“Exactly!”
When Ethan and I got back from our honeymoon three weeks later, there was a package waiting for us. There came a note from Dad and a journal, beautifully bound in leather.
“Lindsay,
You’ve always had priceless words. Deserving of protection. Worth preserving. No one will ever use these pages against you again, so I hope you fill them with delight.
I’m getting better at listening. I’m available if you want to talk.
“Love, Dad.”
After years, I penned my first entry that evening:
“To Diary,
I came to a significant realization today: family isn’t defined by who lives under your roof or shares your blood. When you are unable to protect your heart, your family does. Who, rather of reopening your scars for sports, notices them and helps them heal?
I believed for years that I was strong because I survived Diane. The true strength, however, was allowing others to support me when she attempted to undermine me.
I’m not the girl who kept her thoughts in a fragile-looking pink journal. As a woman, I am aware that the harshness of others does not determine my value.
And if my wedding day taught me anything, it’s to believe people the first time they show you who they really are.
More importantly, though, never let go of someone who loves you enough to protect you from harm.
Ethan kissed the top of my head after spotting me writing.
“Happy?” he inquired.
I felt the journal’s weight in my palms as I closed it. It was weighty not with shame but with promise.
“Getting there!” I said. And for the first time in forever, I truly meant it.
