One of the bridesmaids casually mentioned that my parents had asked him into one of the venue’s private rooms.
A cold feeling slid down my spine.
Gathering my dress, I hurried down the corridor.
The door wasn’t completely shut.
Then I heard my mother’s voice.
Low.
Sharp.
“Ten thousand dollars, Callum. Cash. You walk away today and Rachel never has to know we spoke.”
I froze.
Outside the room.
Unable to move.
“You think she’ll be happy pushing a wheelchair the rest of her life?” my father continued. “Be a man about this. Let her go.”
Then came Callum’s voice.
Steady.
Calm.
“I would refuse you if you offered me a hundred times that. I’m not for sale. And neither is your daughter’s happiness.”
“Don’t lecture us,” my father muttered.
“I’m not lecturing,” Callum said softly. “I’m marrying her.”
I pushed the door open.
All three turned toward me.
“How could you?” I whispered.
My mother immediately straightened her jacket.
“Rachel, sweetheart, we were only trying to give you one last chance to think clearly.”
“You tried to buy him off,” I snapped. “On my wedding day.”
“We’re trying to spare you a lifetime of being a caregiver instead of a wife,” Mom argued. “What do you think our friends are saying right now? You’re throwing your future away on a man who can’t even…”
“Don’t,” I interrupted. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
I looked at my father.
He was staring at the carpet.
Refusing to look at Callum.
He looked less like an angry father and more like a man carrying a weight he couldn’t bear.
“Dad,” I said. “Say something.”
He cleared his throat.
“Your mother’s right. That’s all.”
But the words sounded hollow.
Rehearsed.
And he still wouldn’t look at Callum.
Then Callum squeezed my hand.
Just once.
“We have a ceremony in 20 minutes. I’d like to marry your daughter now, if she’ll still have me.”
“I’ll still have you,” I said. “Always.”
For illustrative purposes only
The Ceremony
The ceremony passed in a blur.
Callum sat proudly beside me in his wheelchair, dressed in a navy suit.
When he spoke his vows, his voice never trembled.
Not once.
My parents sat in the front row looking as though they were attending a funeral.
My mother dabbed at her eyes.
But not because she was happy.
The reception had barely begun.
Guests chatted quietly.
Silverware clinked against plates.
Everyone seemed to be pretending that nothing was wrong.
Then my mother stood.
“Excuse me,” she announced while tapping her ring against a glass. “Everyone, excuse me.”
