When my stepmother kept me inside to prevent me from getting to the altar, she believed she had everything worked out. Her ideal day was completely ruined by a single, little detail that she failed to notice.
Hold on tight. I still can’t believe this.
I am thirty years old. My father is sixty-one. He also informed me that he was getting married again around three months ago.
He said, “To Dana!” with the enthusiasm of a teenager. A simple wedding is what we’re planning. Only family and close pals.
Dana. Fifty-something. wears high heels as if they were cemented to her feet. She always sounds like she’s making a sales pitch. She’s composed of 30% negative energy and 70% Botox, I promise.
I didn’t despise Dana. I made an effort. Really, really made an effort. Her jokes made me chuckle. even the ones that were illogical. I grinned as I ate each tasteless, overdone casserole. One Christmas, I bought her a lovely scarf.
It was never worn by her.
