The white silk of my wedding dress felt like chains around my body as I stood frozen at the altar. 150 pairs of eyes burning into my soul. The church that had been filled with joy and anticipation just moments before now echoed with shocked gasps and whispered prayers. I can’t do this, Sharon. Kyrie’s voice cut through the sacred silence like a blade through my heart.
You know I told you no makeup on our wedding day. Why would you go and paint your face like this? The bouquet of white roses trembled in my hands as I stared at the man I had loved for three years. The man who was supposed to become my husband in the next 5 minutes. His dark eyes once filled with warmth when they looked at me now held nothing but cold disgust. Kyrie, please.
My voice barely escaped my throat. It’s just a little foundation and no. He stepped back from me, his black tuxedo pristine while my world crumbled. A woman who can’t respect her future husband’s wishes on their wedding day can’t be trusted in marriage. This wedding is off. The church erupted. My mother’s scream pierced the air. My sister Juliana’s chair scraped against the marble floor as she jumped up.
Uncle Simon’s deep voice boomed from the front pew, but I couldn’t make out his words over the ringing in my ears. Kyrie turned his back on me and walked down the aisle, his groomsman following like a procession of betrayal. The massive wooden doors of St. Mary’s Cathedral slammed shut behind them with a sound that would haunt my dreams.
I stood there in my thousand dress. The veil my grandmother had worn 50 years ago, now feeling like a funeral shroud. The makeup he hated so much began to run down my cheeks in black streams. But 30 minutes later, those same doors would burst open.
Kyrie would come running down that aisle on his knees, begging me to forgive him, to marry him, to save him from the consequences of his cruelty. By then, it would be too late for all of us. Before we continue, please write in the comment which country you are watching this video. We love knowing where our global family is tuning in from. And if this is your first time on this channel, please subscribe.
Your support helps us bring even more epic revenge tales of life. Enjoy listening. My name is Sharon Wright and I used to believe in fairy tales. 3 years before that devastating day at St. Mary’s Cathedral, I was a 24year-old marketing coordinator living in a small apartment downtown, dreaming of the perfect wedding, the perfect husband, the perfect life.
I had shoulderlength brown hair that caught the light just right, green eyes that my mother always said sparkled like emeralds, and a heart that beat with eternal optimism. That optimism would nearly destroy me. I met Kyrie Robinson at a coffee shop on Elm Street on a rainy Tuesday morning in October. He was tall, about 6’2, with dark hair and the kind of smile that made you forget your own name.
When he accidentally bumped into me and spilled coffee on my white blouse, he was so apologetic, so charming that I found myself laughing instead of crying about my ruined shirt. “Let me buy you another coffee,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “And maybe we can find you a new shirt, too. We talked for 3 hours that day.
He told me he was 28, worked in construction, and had recently moved to town for a fresh start. I told him about my job, my family, my dreams of traveling the world someday. When he asked for my number, my hands shook as I wrote it down. Our first date was perfect. Dinner at a small Italian restaurant, a walk through the park under the stars, and a good night kiss that made my knees weak.
Kyrie was everything I thought I wanted in a man. attentive, romantic, protective. The protective part started small. He would comment on my clothes, suggesting I wear something more appropriate when we went out. He didn’t like when other men looked at me, so he preferred I dress more modestly. At first, I thought it was sweet.
He cared about me so much he wanted to keep me safe. “You’re so beautiful, Sharon,” he would whisper in my ear. “I just want to keep you all to myself.” 6 months into our relationship, I introduced him to my family at Sunday dinner. My parents, Wright Baker and Margaret Wright, lived in the same house where I grew up.
A modest two-story home with a white picket fence and my mother’s prized rose garden in the front yard. My father was a quiet man who worked as a mechanic, his hands always stained with honest grease, his heart always full of love for his family. My mother was a part-time nurse with gentle hands and fierce loyalty to those she loved.
My younger sister Juliana was 20 then, studying to be a teacher with the same green eyes as me, but a spirit twice as fierce. And then there was Uncle Simon. Simon Baker was my father’s older brother, a successful businessman who owned three restaurants in the city.
He never married, never had children, but he loved our family with everything he had. Uncle Simon was the one who paid for my college tuition when money was tight. He was the one who promised to walk me down the aisle if anything ever happened to my father. That Sunday dinner changed everything. Kyrie arrived in a cheap suit that he’d clearly borrowed. His hair sllicked back, his smile humble and nervous.
He shook my father’s hand firmly, complimented my mother on her pot roast. And when Uncle Simon mentioned he was looking for reliable workers at his newest restaurant, Kyrie’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. I’d be honored to work for you, sir, Kyrie said, his voice respectful.
I know the value of hard work, and I promise you won’t regret giving me a chance. Uncle Simon studied him for a long moment, then smiled. Anyone Sharon brings home must be good people. Come see me Monday morning. That night, as I walked Kyrie to his beat up Honda Civic, he kissed me harder than he ever had before. “Your uncle is a good man,” he said against my lips.
“Your whole family is amazing. I can’t wait to be part of it officially someday. I should have seen the calculating gleam in his eyes. I should have noticed how quickly his demeanor had changed from nervous suitor to confident insider. But I was in love and love makes you blind to the very things that could save you.
Two years passed in what I thought was blissful happiness. Kyrie worked his way up in Uncle Simon’s restaurant from bus boy to assistant manager. He moved out of his studio apartment and into a nice one-bedroom place. He bought a better car, better clothes, and gave me better gifts. But he also became more controlling.
He didn’t like my female friends, saying they were bad influences who filled my head with nonsense. He preferred I spend my free time with him or my family, not running around with people who didn’t understand our relationship. One by one, my friendships faded away. He had opinions about everything. My hair should be longer. My clothes should be more conservative.
my job. I should quit and let him take care of me. Even my makeup. Real wives don’t need artificial beauty. Sharon, you’re naturally gorgeous, he would say, wiping off my lipstick with his thumb. Why do you want to hide behind all that paint? I want to marry the real you, not some madeup version. I started wearing less makeup than almost none at all.
I grew my hair out. I bought clothes that covered more skin. I told myself I was changing because I wanted to, because love meant compromise. The proposal came on Valentine’s Day at the same Italian restaurant where we’d had our first date.
“Kyrie got down on one knee right there in front of everyone, holding a beautiful diamond ring that must have cost him months of salary.” “Sharon, right,” he said, his voice carrying through the restaurant. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive. Will you marry me and make me whole?” I said, “Yes, of course.” The entire restaurant applauded. I called my mother from the bathroom crying happy tears.
When we got home, I stared at the ring on my finger and imagined our perfect wedding, our perfect life, our perfect children. Uncle Simon was so proud when we told him the news. He insisted on paying for the wedding, saying I was like a daughter to him, and he wanted to give us the celebration we deserved. He booked St.
Mary’s Cathedral, the most beautiful church in the city, and gave us a budget that would make our wedding magazine worthy. This is my gift to you both, Uncle Simon said, his eyes twinkling with joy. Sharon deserves the fairy tale wedding she’s dreamed of since she was little. Kyrie hugged him tight. Thank you, sir. I promise I’ll take care of her for the rest of my life.
I should have paid attention to how Kyrie’s embrace lasted a little too long. How his eyes stayed calculating even as he smiled with gratitude. But I was too busy planning the perfect wedding to notice the cracks forming in my perfect relationship. The wedding planning consumed the next year of my life. Every detail had to be perfect.
the flowers, the music, the menu, the dress. I spent hours pouring over bridal magazines, Pinterest boards, and vendor websites. Kyrie seemed content to let me handle most of the decisions as long as I ran them by him first. Whatever makes you happy, baby, he would say, kissing my forehead. As long as you remember, no too much makeup on our wedding day. I want to see your natural beauty as I marry you. I laughed it off.
Kyrie, every bride wears makeup on her wedding day. It’s tradition. His smile faded. Not my bride. Promise me, Sharon. Natural beauty only. The firmness in his voice made something cold settle in my stomach, but I pushed the feeling away. He was just old-fashioned, I told myself. Traditional. It was actually kind of romantic that he found me beautiful without makeup.
Okay, I said, though something inside me rebelled against the promise. If it’s that important to you. As the wedding date approached, I began to notice things that should have sent me running. Kyrie would disappear for hours at a time, claiming he was working late at the restaurant.
But when I called Uncle Simon to surprise Kyrie with dinner, my uncle would tell me Kyrie had left early. He said he had wedding errands to run. Uncle Simon would explain, “That boy is so dedicated to making your day perfect. I also noticed that Kyrie had become increasingly critical of everything I did.
If I laughed too loudly at a family gathering, he would pull me aside and tell me I was embarrassing him. If I wore a dress that showed my collarbone, he would make me change. If I mentioned wanting to keep my job after we married, he would launch into a speech about proper wives supporting their husbands. Marriage is about unity, Sharon.
He would say, “We need to present ourselves as one unit, one vision. That means you need to follow my lead.” My sister Juliana tried to talk to me about it. She was 22 now, finishing her teaching degree, and she had a way of seeing through people’s facades that I envied.
“Sharon, something’s not right about Kyrie,” she said one evening as we addressed wedding invitations in my apartment. “He’s changed so much since you got engaged. He’s controlling. He’s not controlling,” I defended. He’s protective. He loves me. Love doesn’t mean isolating you from your friends. Love doesn’t mean dictating what you wear or how you look.
Juliana set down her pen and looked at me seriously. When was the last time you made a decision without checking with him first? I opened my mouth to answer and realized I couldn’t remember. That’s not That’s just how relationships work when you’re serious about each other, I said weakly. No, Sharon, that’s how controlling relationships work.
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I’m scared for you. But I was too deep in wedding planning, too invested in the fairy tale, too afraid of admitting I might be wrong to listen to her concerns. Instead, I threw myself even deeper into creating the perfect wedding day.
Two weeks before the wedding, something happened that should have opened my eyes, but I was too blind to see it clearly. I was at the grocery store picking up ingredients for dinner when I saw Kyrie’s car parked outside a small apartment complex across town. I almost drove over to surprise him, but something made me park across the street instead.
I watched as Kyrie emerged from one of the apartment buildings, but he wasn’t alone. A woman walked out with him, a woman with long blonde hair and a confident walk. She was beautiful in a sharp, predatory way that made my stomach clench with sudden fear. The woman stood on her tiptoes and kissed Kyrie’s cheek. He said something that made her laugh. Then he got in his car and drove away.
The woman watched him go, her hand pressed to the cheek he’d kissed. When I confronted Kyrie about it that night, he had a ready explanation. “Oh, that was Martha, my old friend from my hometown,” he said casually. “I’ve been helping her move to the city. She’s been going through a rough time, and I felt bad for her.
” “Martha?” Something about the name felt familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Yeah, we grew up together. She’s like a sister to me.” He pulled me into his arms. You’re not jealous, are you? Because there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. So, I swallowed my doubts and let him kiss away my fears.
But Martha wasn’t just any old friend from his hometown. Martha was my cousin. The morning of my wedding dawned gray and drizzly, which my grandmother always said was good luck. Tears before the wedding meant no tears after. I woke up in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by my bridesmaids. Juliana and two college friends who had stayed in touch despite Kyrie’s subtle discouragement.
My dress hung on the closet door, a vision of white silk and lace that had cost Uncle Simon more money than I wanted to think about. My grandmother’s veil lay carefully on the dresser, the same veil she had worn in 1955. The same one my mother had worn in 1982.
Today’s the day, Juliana said, bringing me coffee in bed. How do you feel? I should have felt excited, radiant, ready to marry the love of my life. Instead, I felt a strange heaviness in my chest like a bird trapped in a cage. Nervous, I admitted. Is that normal? Completely normal, my mother said, bustling into the room with my pressed slip. I threw up twice before marrying your father.
Best decision I ever made, but I was terrified. The morning flew by in a blur of hair curling, dress fitting, and photograph taking. My mother cried when she saw me in my wedding dress. Uncle Simon, who was giving me away since my father had passed away from a heart attack the year before, had tears in his eyes.
“You look just like your grandmother on her wedding day,” he said, adjusting my veil. “She would be so proud.” “It was Juliana who brought up the makeup.” Okay, Sharon. Time to sit down and let me work my magic, she said, opening her makeup bag. I’ve been practicing your wedding look for weeks. I froze. Actually, Kyrie doesn’t want me to wear makeup. The room went silent.
My mother stopped fluffing my dress. My bridesmaids exchanged glances. What do you mean he doesn’t want you to wear makeup? My mother asked slowly. He thinks I’m beautiful naturally. He wants to marry the real me, not some madeup version. Even as I said the words, they sounded hollow.
Sharon, Juliana said carefully, every bride wears makeup. It’s not about hiding who you are. It’s about enhancing your natural beauty for the most important day of your life. Besides, added my college friend Kelly, the photographers’s lights will wash you out completely if you don’t wear any makeup.
You look back at these photos forever. I stared at myself in the mirror. My skin was pale with pre-wedding nerves. My eyes looked tired from a sleepless night. And my lips were almost colorless. I looked sick, not radiant. Maybe just a little, I whispered. Just some foundation and mascara. Something natural. Juliana worked quickly, applying just enough makeup to make me look healthy and bright.
foundation to even out my skin tone, concealer under my eyes, a touch of blush, mascara to make my eyes pop, and a soft pink lipstick that barely changed my natural lip color. When she was done, I looked like myself, just the best version of myself. Perfect. My mother breathed. You’re absolutely perfect.
But as the photographer snapped pictures and everyone fussed over last minute details, a part of me knew I was making a mistake. Not the makeup that was barely noticeable. The mistake was marrying a man who would try to control how I looked on my own wedding day. By the time we arrived at St. Mary’s Cathedral, I had convinced myself everything would be fine.
Kyrie would see how beautiful I looked and realize he’d been silly about the makeup. We would have our fairy tale wedding, and this would all be a funny story to tell our children someday. The church was breathtaking. White roses and baby’s breath lined the aisle. Candles flickered from every surface and soft organ music filled the sacred space.
150 guests filled the pews. My family, Kyrie’s small family from out of state, Uncle Simon’s business friends and co-workers from both our jobs. I waited in the bridal suite, my hands shaking as I held my bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath.
Through the window, I could see guests arriving, everyone dressed in their finest clothes, everyone excited to witness our union. Uncle Simon knocked on the door. It’s time, sweetheart. I took one last look in the mirror. The woman looking back at me was beautiful, radiant, even with just enough makeup to enhance her natural glow. This was the woman Kyrie was going to marry.
This was the woman who was about to become Mrs. Kyrie Robinson. The organ began to play. Here comes the bride. As the doors to the chapel opened, Uncle Simon offered me his arm, and we began the long walk down the aisle. Every face turned toward us, smiling some crying happy tears. My mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Juliana, my maid of honor, beamed at me from the altar, and there was Kyrie standing at the altar in his black tuxedo, looking handsome and nervous and perfect until he saw my face. I watched his expression change from anticipation to shock to cold fury. his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides, and I knew with a sinking heart that my fairy tale was about to become a nightmare. I can’t do this, Sharon.
Those five words echoed through St. Mary’s Cathedral like a death nail. Uncle Simon’s arm tightened around mine as if he could hold me together through sheer will. The organ music faltered and died, leaving only the sound of my ragged breathing and the whispered shock of 150 wedding guests.
You know, I told you no makeup on our wedding day. You’ve deceived me. The word deceived hit me like a physical blow. I felt my knees start to buckle, but somehow I remained standing in my grandmother’s veil, holding my bouquet with hands that had gone numb. “Kyrie, please,” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the vast space. “It’s just a little foundation, and no.
” He stepped back from me as if I were contaminated. A woman who can’t respect her future husband’s wishes on their wedding day can’t be trusted in marriage. This wedding is off. The cathedral erupted in chaos. Someone screamed, “My mother, I think.” Chairs scraped against marble as people jumped to their feet.
Uncle Simon’s voice boomed through the noise, but I couldn’t understand his words over the rushing sound in my ears. I stood frozen at the altar, watching the man I loved walk away from me. His groomsmen followed like sheep, their faces a mix of embarrassment and relief at escaping the scene. The massive doors slammed shut behind them with a sound that reverberated through my bones. And then the whisper started.
Did you see her face? She’s wearing makeup after he specifically asked her not to. Maybe he had a point. If she can’t listen to something that simple. Poor boy. Good thing he found out what kind of woman she really is before it was too late. Each whisper was a knife in my chest.
I wanted to scream at them to tell them that I was still a good person, that a little mascara didn’t make me a deceiver or a liar, but I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe. Sharon. Juliana appeared at my side, her face white with shock and fury. Sharon, we need to get you out of here. No, I said, surprising myself with the firmness of my voice. I need to know why. I need to understand how he could do this to me.
Uncle Simon was beside me now, his face red with rage. That boy just made the biggest mistake of his life. Sharon, honey, you’re better off without. He humiliated me in front of everyone I care about. I interrupted, finally feeling something other than shock. Anger was starting to burn through the numbness.
He made me feel like I was nothing, like wearing a little makeup on my wedding day made me unworthy of love. My mother reached me then, tears streaming down her face. Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. I looked around at the faces of my family and friends, all staring at me with pity and confusion. It’s my fault.
I should have seen who he really was. But even as I said it, I didn’t really believe it. I was hurt, devastated, embarrassed beyond words, but I still loved him. Even after what he’d just done to me, part of me hoped he would realize his mistake and come back. I hated myself for that hope. We should go, Juliana said gently. People are starting to leave and the photographer.
Let them leave, I said, my voice getting stronger. Let them all leave and whisper about the bride who wore makeup and deserved to be abandoned. I don’t care anymore. But I did care. I cared so much it felt like my chest was being crushed. Father Collins, the elderly priest who was supposed to marry us, approached carefully. My dear, I’m so sorry.
In 40 years of performing weddings, I’ve never seen anything like this. Would you like to use my office to collect yourself? I almost said yes. I almost let them hustle me away to grieve in private while the guests filed out and the wedding that was supposed to be the happiest day of my life became nothing more than gossip fodder. But something inside me rebelled against hiding.
“No,” I said, lifting my chin. “If Kyrie Robinson wants to make a spectacle of me, then I’ll give everyone something to really look at.” I turned to face the congregation, many of whom were still seated, too shocked or too curious to leave. My voice carried through the cathedral as I spoke.
Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize that you came here today expecting a wedding and got a public humiliation instead. I want you all to know that I am not the villain in this story. I wore a little foundation and mascara because I wanted to look beautiful on what was supposed to be the most important day of my life.
If that makes me unworthy of love in Kyrie Robinson’s eyes, then he never deserved me to begin with. Some people nodded. Others looked uncomfortable. A few were openly crying. The reception at the Grand Hotel is still paid for, I continued. You’re all welcome to stay and eat the food and celebrate the fact that I won’t be legally binding myself to a man who would abandon me over something so trivial. Uncle Simon squeezed my shoulder. That’s my girl.
But before anyone could respond, the cathedral doors burst open with a bang that echoed through the sacred space. Kyrie stood in the doorway, his perfect tuxedo disheveled, his hair messed up, his face wild with panic. He looked around the cathedral desperately until his eyes found mine. And then he ran.
Not walked, not jogged, ran down the aisle toward me, pushing past confused guests, stumbling over the train of my dress as he fell to his knees at my feet. Sharon, please,” he gasped, grabbing at the hem of my dress. “Please forgive me. I made a terrible mistake. Marry me. Please, just marry me.” The cathedral fell silent again, but this time the silence was different.
Anticipatory, hungry, I stared down at the man who had just humiliated me beyond measure. Now graveling at my feet in front of the same people who had witnessed my shame. “Get up,” I said quietly. “Not until you say you’ll marry me. Karen, I love you. I was just nervous, scared of making such a big commitment. The makeup thing was stupid. I know that now. You’re beautiful with or without it. Please, baby, give me another chance.
Part of me wanted to believe him. Part of me wanted to forgive him and continue with the ceremony and pretend this had all been some terrible nightmare. But I had learned something in those 30 minutes of devastation. I was stronger than I thought I was. I said, “Get up, Kyrie.” He rose slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. Does that mean you forgive me? It means I want to understand why you left and why you came back.
Relief flooded his features. I left because I was scared, but I realized that I can’t live without you. Sharon, you’re everything to me. I The cathedral doors slammed open again. A woman stormed down the aisle, her high heels clicking angrily against the marble floor.
She was tall, blonde, beautiful in a harsh way that made my stomach clench with recognition. It was Martha, the woman from the apartment complex. The woman Kyrie claimed was like a sister to him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she screamed at Kyrie, her voice echoing through the cathedral. “You said you were done with her.
You said you were coming to get me so we could start our new life together.” The air left my lungs in a rush. around me. I could hear gasps and murmurss as the wedding guests realized they were witnessing something far more dramatic than a simple case of cold feet. Martha turned her fury on me. And you, you pathetic little mouse. Can’t you see he doesn’t want you? He came to me right after he left you at the altar.
He was laughing about how easy it was to get rid of you. The words hit me like physical blows, but something else was nagging at my mind. Something about Martha’s face, her voice, the way she held herself. And then Uncle Simon made a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Martha,” he whispered, his face going white. “Martha Clark.
” The woman turned toward him, and I saw recognition dawn in her eyes. “Hello, Uncle Simon. Uncle Simon.” The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Martha Clark was my cousin. Uncle Simon’s sister’s daughter, the sister who had cut ties with our family years ago after a bitter fight about money.
Martha was the cousin I had met only a handful of times at family gatherings when I was little. The one who had moved away when I was 10. “You’re my cousin,” I breathed, staring at her in shock. Martha’s smile was cruel and triumphant. “Surprise cuz I’m also the woman your precious Kyrie has been screwing for the past 6 months.” The cathedral exploded in noise.
My mother screamed. Juliana lunged forward like she was going to physically attack Martha. Uncle Simon grabbed a pew for support as if his legs wouldn’t hold him. But I just stood there, pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The familiar look of Martha when I’d seen her with Kyrie.
The way he’d become more distant and controlling as the wedding approached. The mysterious errands and late nights at work. 6 months, I repeated numbly. 6 months, Martha confirmed, her voice dripping with satisfaction. Ever since I moved to town, and he helped me find that apartment. One look at me and he forgot all about little plain Sharon and her natural beauty. I turned to look at Kyrie who was standing between us like a man facing a firing squad.
His face was pale, his eyes darting between Martha and me like he was trying to figure out which way the wind was blowing. Is it true? I asked him quietly. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Sharon, I can explain. Is it true? Yes, he whispered. But it doesn’t matter now. I choose you. I want to marry you.” Martha laughed.
A harsh sound that made several people flinch. “You want to marry her? 20 minutes ago, you were telling me how glad you were to be free of her. How we could finally be together without sneaking around.” “That was before,” Kyrie started, then stopped himself. “Before what?” I asked though I was starting to understand.
Kyrie’s face crumpled. Before I realized what I was giving up. Sharon, your uncle’s business, the connections, the security. I need that. I need you. The truth hit me like a slap. He didn’t want me back because he loved me. He wanted me back because I was his ticket to Uncle Simon’s money and influence. You never loved me, I said. And it wasn’t a question. I do love you, he protested weakly.
No, you loved what I could give you. My uncle’s job, my family’s acceptance, the comfortable life I represented. I looked around at the faces watching us. Some horrified, some fascinated, some disgusted. And when you thought you could have all of that, plus Martha on the side, you figured you just get rid of me and take it all anyway.
That’s not Kyrie began. But something went wrong, didn’t it? I continued. The pieces clicking together. Something happened in those 30 minutes that made you realize you couldn’t just walk away from me. Kyrie’s face went even paler. Martha was watching him with narrowed eyes. What happened, Kyrie? I pressed.
What made you come running back? You looked like he was going to be sick. Sharon, please. Let’s just tell her. Martha snapped suddenly. Tell her why you came crawling back like a whipped dog. Martha, don’t. Kyrie pleaded. But Martha’s eyes were blazing with fury and betrayal. She had thought she’d won.
Thought she was getting her man and her victory over the family that had excluded her. Instead, she was watching him beg for another woman’s forgiveness. “Your uncle fired him,” she spat. The second he left the cathedral, Simon Baker called the restaurant and told them Kyrie Robinson was no longer welcome there.
Not as an employee, not as a customer, not even to pick up takeout. I turned to look at Uncle Simon, who was standing rigid with anger. “You fired him?” “Yeah, right. I did,” Uncle Simon growled. The boy humiliated my niece in front of 150 people. Did he think I was going to keep paying his salary after that? But it gets better, Martha continued, her voice rising with hysteria. Tell her about the apartment, Kyrie. Tell her about the car.
Tell her about all the other little perks you’re about to lose. My eyes widened as understanding dawned. The apartment you live in. Uncle Simon owns that building. Kyrie nodded miserably. And the car? Company car? He whispered. So when you walked out on me, you walked out on everything, I said slowly.
Your job, your home, your car, probably half your possessions, and you realized that without me, you have nothing. That’s not the only reason, he started. Yes, it is. I cut him off. Because if you really loved me, you never would have left in the first place. The fight seemed to go out of him then.
His shoulders sagged and for the first time since I’d known him, Kyrie Robinson looked like what he really was, a small, selfish man who had overplayed his hand. But Martha wasn’t done. She turned to face Kyrie with a smile that was pure venom. I’m pregnant. Two words that changed everything. The cathedral went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop on the marble floor.
I felt like I was watching everything happen from outside my body, like this was some terrible movie and I was just an observer. “What?” Kyrie’s voice was barely a whisper. “You heard me,” Martha said, her hand moving to rest on her still flat stomach. “I’m carrying your child, Kyrie. The child you made while you were engaged to her.” “The child you made while you were engaged to her.
” Those words hit me like a freight train. Not only had he been cheating on me, he had gotten another woman pregnant. My cousin pregnant. While we were planning our wedding, while I was picking out flowers and choosing a menu, while I was dreaming about our future children, he was creating a child with someone else.
How long have you known? I heard myself ask, though my voice sounded strange and distant, Martha’s smile was triumphant. 2 weeks, I told him. The night after your bachelorette party. My bachelorette party? The night when I had been celebrating with my sister and friends, talking about how excited I was to marry the love of my life, Martha had been telling Kyrie she was carrying his baby.
“That’s why you’ve been so strange these past 2 weeks,” I said, pieces clicking into place. “That’s why you kept finding excuses to postpone things, why you seemed so desperate about the makeup issue.” “Sharon, I can explain.” Kyrie started. “You were looking for a way out,” I continued, my voice getting stronger.
any excuse to call off the wedding without looking like the villain. You thought if you made it about me breaking your rules, people would blame me instead of you. But then you realized you couldn’t afford to lose everything, Martha added with bitter satisfaction. So you came running back like the coward you are. Kyrie spun to face her.
You said you were fine with waiting. You said we could figure it out after the wedding. I was never fine with it. Martha screamed. I wanted you to choose me, but you’re too much of a weakling to give up your comfortable little life. That’s when Juliana snapped.
My sister had been standing frozen in shock since Martha’s announcement, but something in her finally broke. She lunged forward with a sound like a wounded animal and slapped Martha across the face so hard the sound echoed through the cathedral. “How dare you?” Juliana snarled, her voice shaking with rage. How dare you come into our family, use our trust, and destroy my sister’s life. Martha held her cheek, her eyes blazing with fury.
Your sister was never going to make him happy. I gave him what she couldn’t. You gave him what? Juliana laughed harshly. A pregnancy scare and a guilty conscience. Congratulations. It’s not a scare, Martha said coldly. I’m 3 months along.
3 months? Three months meant she got pregnant right around the time Kyrie and I sent out our wedding invitations. Three months meant he had been sleeping with her regularly, not just a one-time mistake. 3 months meant that while I was choosing wedding favors and seating arrangements, he was building a whole other life behind my back. I felt something inside me break.
Not my heart that had already been shattered when he walked out on me. This was something deeper, something that had to do with my sense of who I was and what I deserved. Get out, I said quietly. Everyone turned to look at me. Kyrie’s face lit up with hope like he thought I was talking to Martha. Sharon, yes.
Make her leave so we can ot her, I said, my voice carrying clearly through the cathedral. Both of you get out of my sight, Sharon. Please, Kyrie begged. I know this looks bad, but we can work through this. People make mistakes. Mistakes. I stepped closer to him, my grandmother’s veil flowing behind me like a white flag of surrender that I was finally ready to wave. A mistake is forgetting to pick up milk from the store. A mistake is being late for dinner.
Getting my cousin pregnant while planning our wedding is not a mistake. It’s a betrayal of everything I thought we meant to each other. But I love you, he said desperately. I choose you. No, you don’t. You choose my uncle’s money and the comfortable life I represent. But you can’t have both, Kyrie. You can’t have me and her and expect me to just accept it because you say you love me.
I turned to Martha, who was still holding her cheek where Juliana had slapped her. And you, I barely remember you from when we were kids, but I remember enough to know you were always jealous of what other people had. I guess some things never change. Martha’s face twisted with rage. At least I’m not pathetic enough to take back a man who humiliated me in front of everyone I know.
You’re right, I said calmly. I’m not taking him back. The relief on Martha’s face was immediately replaced by confusion when she saw that Kyrie looked devastated, not relieved. Wait, she said slowly. If you’re not taking him back and he doesn’t want me, then you both get exactly what you deserve. I finished each other. I turned to face the congregation one last time. Many people had left during the chaos.
But at least 50 were still there watching this drama unfold like it was better than any soap opera. Ladies and gentlemen, the show is over. There will be no wedding today, no reconciliation, no fairy tale ending. There’s just the truth, which is that sometimes the people you trust most are the ones who hurt you worst.
I started walking down the aisle, my heels clicking against the marble, my dress trailing behind me like a ghost of dreams that would never come true. Uncle Simon immediately fell into step beside me and Juliana took my other arm. Sharon, wait. Kyrie called after me. I didn’t stop, but I called back without turning around. Don’t follow me, Kyrie. Don’t call me. Don’t text me.
Don’t show up at my apartment. We’re done. But what am I supposed to do? He yelled, his voice cracking with panic. I don’t know, I said still walking. Maybe start by figuring out how you’re going to support that baby. I heard Martha’s sharp intake of breath behind me, followed by Kyrie’s groan of realization.
He had been so focused on getting me back that he’d forgotten about the very real consequences of his affair. The cathedral doors closed behind us with a final definitive sound. Outside, it was still drizzling, and the gray sky matched my mood perfectly. Several of our guests were lingering on the steps, not sure whether to stay or go. Sharon. Honey, my mother said, appearing at my side.
Let’s get you home and out of that dress. No, I said firmly. I’m not going home to cry and hide. I’m going to the reception. The reception? Juliana stared at me. Sharon, you can’t be serious. I’m completely serious. Uncle Simon paid a lot of money for that reception. The least I can do is make sure people enjoy the food and the music. I smoothed down my skirt with hands that were finally steady.
Besides, I have an announcement to make. The Grand Hotel’s ballroom had been transformed into a winter wonderland. White roses and silver accents everywhere. Soft lighting that made everything glow. A dance floor that should have seen our first dance as husband and wife. The caterers were setting up the buffet. The DJ was testing his equipment.
And everything was perfect for a celebration that was never going to happen. At least not the celebration everyone expected. I walked into that ballroom in my wedding dress, my head held high, flanked by my family. Word had obviously spread about what happened at the church because the hotel staff kept staring at me with a mixture of pity and fascination. Ms. Wright, the wedding coordinator, approached nervously.
I heard there were some complications at the ceremony. Should we start packing up? No, I said firmly. We’re still having a party, just not a wedding reception. About 60 people showed up at the hotel. Family members, close friends, and a few curious co-workers who probably came for the drama as much as the free food. Notably absent were Kyrie and Martha, though I kept expecting them to show up and cause another scene.
I stood at the head table where Kyrie and I should have been sitting as newlyweds, looking out at the confused faces of my guests. Uncle Simon had gotten me a microphone from the DJ, and I tapped it gently to get everyone’s attention. Thank you all for coming today, I began, my voice carrying clearly through the ballroom.
I know this isn’t quite the party you expected to attend. A few nervous chuckles rippled through the crowd. As you all witnessed earlier, there will be no wedding today. Kyrie Robinson has chosen to pursue a relationship with my cousin Martha, who is carrying his child. I said it matterof factly like I was giving a weather report. But I want you all to know that I’m not heartbroken.
I’m grateful. That got their attention. The room went completely silent. I’m grateful because I found out who Kyrie really was before I legally bound myself to him. I’m grateful because I learned that I’m stronger than I ever thought I was.
And I’m grateful for all of you, the people who really love me, who came here today to support me, and who are still here even after witnessing the most embarrassing moment of my life. I raised the glass of champagne that Juliana had handed me. So, let’s eat Uncle Simon’s expensive catering, dance to the music we already paid for, and celebrate the fact that Sharon Wright is free to find a man who actually deserves her. The applause was thunderous.
People jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping like I had just given the performance of my life. Maybe I had. The party that followed was unlike any wedding reception I’d ever attended. People seemed determined to make sure I had a good time, like they were trying to make up for the humiliation I’d endured. I danced with Uncle Simon, with my male cousins, with old family friends.
I laughed until my sides hurt and ate cake that was supposed to have little figures of Kyrie and me on top. But the real satisfaction came when Kyrie’s mother arrived. Mrs. Robinson was a small, fierce woman in her 60s who had traveled from three states away to watch her son get married. I had always liked her during the few times we’d met.
She was honest, hard-working, and had raised Kyrie mostly on her own after his father left when he was 10. She walked into that ballroom like a woman on a mission, still wearing the navy blue dress she’d bought specially for the wedding. Her eyes scanned the crowd until they found me. And then she marched over with determination.
I braced myself, expecting her to defend her son or blame me for the disaster somehow. Instead, she pulled me into the tightest hug I’d ever received. “I am so sorry,” she whispered in my ear. “I am so ashamed of what my son did to you.” “When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes.
“I didn’t raise him to treat women this way,” she said, her voice shaking. “When I heard what happened at the church, I wanted to crawl under a rock and hide. You deserved so much better than this. Mrs. Robinson, you don’t have to apologize for. Yes, I do. She cut me off. I know my son. I know he can be selfish and calculating when he wants something. I should have seen the signs. Should have warned you somehow.
She took my hands in her weathered ones. You’re a good girl, Sharon. You’re too good for him. And deep down, I think you always knew that. The conversation was interrupted by a commotion near the ballroom entrance. I looked over to see Martha storming in, her face red with anger and mascara running down her cheeks.
She had changed out of her dramatic confrontation outfit into jeans and a t-shirt, but she still looked like she was ready for a fight. “Where is she?” Martha demanded loud enough for the entire ballroom to hear. “Where is the little princess who thinks she’s too good for my man?” The music stopped. Conversations died.
Everyone turned to stare at Martha, who was swaying slightly like she’d been drinking. “I’m right here,” I called out, stepping forward. I was still in my wedding dress, still wearing my grandmother’s veil, still looking every inch the wronged bride. Martha focused on me with obvious difficulty.
“You think you’re so perfect, don’t you? You think you’re better than me because your family has money and connections. I think I’m better than you because I don’t sleep with other women’s fiances,” I replied calmly. I got a few gasps and some nervous laughter from the crowd. He never loved you. Martha screamed. He told me so. He said you were boring in bed. That you dressed like an old lady. That marrying you would be like signing up for a lifetime of mediocrity.
Each word was designed to hurt, to humiliate me further in front of everyone I cared about. A year ago, 6 months ago, even this morning, those words would have destroyed me. But I had been forged in fire today. I had been publicly humiliated, betrayed by the man I loved and the cousin I barely knew, and I had survived it.
Martha’s petty cruelties couldn’t touch me now. If he never loved me, I said quietly. Then why did he spend 30 minutes begging me to take him back? Martha’s face flushed even redder. Because he’s weak. Because he’s too scared to start over without your uncle’s money. Exactly. I agreed. So what does that say about the father of your child that stopped her cold? I could see the realization dawning in her eyes.
If Kyrie was only with me for money and security and he was only crawling back to me for money and security, what did that make her? A temporary distraction? A consolation prize? You’re both welcome to each other. I continued. You can raise your child together and spend the rest of your lives knowing that your relationship was built on lies, betrayal, and mutual selfishness. Martha opened her mouth to respond, but Mrs.
Robinson stepped forward. You, she said, pointing at Martha with a shaking finger. You stay away from my family. Your family. Martha laughed harshly. I’m having your son’s baby. That makes me family whether you like it or not. Mrs. Robinson’s face went white with rage. Without warning, she drew back her hand and slapped Martha across the face with a crack that echoed through the ballroom. That, she said coldly, is for destroying a good woman’s wedding day.
and if I ever see you near Sharon again, you’ll get worse.” Martha held her cheek, staring at Mrs. Robinson in shock.” Then she turned and ran from the ballroom, leaving behind nothing but the lingering scent of cheap perfume and desperation. Mrs. Robinson turned to me with tears in her eyes.
“I meant what I said earlier. You’re too good for him. Promise me you won’t take him back no matter what he says or does.” “I promise,” I said, and I meant it. But as the party continued around us, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over. Kyrie and Martha had lost this battle. But people like them didn’t give up easily.
They would be back probably when I least expected it, trying to take whatever they could from the wreckage of their own bad choices. I just didn’t know yet how brutal my revenge was going to be. 3 days after the wedding, that wasn’t. I sat in Uncle Simon’s office above his flagship restaurant, watching him make phone calls that would change Kyrie and Martha’s lives forever.
“Yes, I understand the lease is in both their names,” Uncle Simon was saying into his phone. But I’m the building owner and I’m exercising my right to terminate for violation of the morals clause. “Yes, there’s a morals clause. Check section 12 of the lease agreement.” He hung up and turned to me with grim satisfaction. They’ll be out by the end of the week. Uncle Simon, you don’t have to.
Yes, I do. He cut me off. That boy humiliated my family. That girl betrayed my trust and used information she gained as a family member to hurt you. They both made their choices, and now they get to live with the consequences. Over the past 3 days, I had learned just how extensive those consequences would be.
Uncle Simon hadn’t just fired Kyrie from the restaurant. He had called every business owner he knew in the city, making sure words spread about what kind of man Kyrie Robinson really was. In a town where reputation meant everything, Kyrie was quickly becoming unemployable. The apartment eviction was just the beginning.
The car Kyrie drove was registered to Uncle Simon’s business, so that was being repossessed. The credit cards Kyrie had gotten with Uncle Simon’s reference were being cancelled. Even the gym membership that Kyrie used to maintain his appearance was being terminated. Uncle Simon sat on the board of directors.
“He built his entire life on the foundation of our family’s trust and generosity,” Uncle Simon explained as he made another call. “Now he gets to see what his life looks like without that foundation.” “But Uncle Simon’s methodical destruction of Kyrie’s comfort wasn’t the most satisfying part of my revenge.
That honor belonged to what happened when the local newspaper got hold of the story. Jenna Collins was a reporter for the City Herald who specialized in human interest stories. She had been a guest at the wedding. Her mother was friends with my mother and she had witnessed everything that happened at the cathedral. On Tuesday, she called to ask if I would be willing to do an interview.
I think your story could help other women who are in controlling relationships, she explained. The way you handled yourself was incredibly brave. I agreed to the interview partly because I wanted to help other women, but mostly because I wanted everyone in town to know exactly who Kyrie Robinson really was.
The article ran on Friday with the headline, “Local bride stands strong after wedding day betrayal.” Jenna had done her homework, interviewing not just me, but also several of Kyrie’s former co-workers who came forward with stories about his behavior once they knew it was safe to speak up. He always talked about how he was going to marry rich.
One former coworker was quoted as saying he used to brag about how easy it was to manipulate Sharon, how she’d do anything he asked because she was so desperate to get married. Another coworker described how Kyrie had openly talked about his affair with Martha. He said he was getting the best of both worlds, Sharon’s family money and Martha’s willingness to do things Sharon wouldn’t do. He thought he was so clever.
The article painted a picture of a man who was calculating, manipulative, and emotionally abusive. It detailed how he had isolated me from my friends, controlled what I wore, and used my love for him to make me doubt my own judgment. But the most damaging part was the interview with Martha herself. Jenna had tracked Martha down at the motel where she and Kyrie were staying after being evicted from their apartment.
Martha, apparently believing that any publicity was good publicity, had agreed to tell her side of the story. Sharon was never right for him. Martha was quoted as saying, “She’s too boring, too vanilla. Kyrie needed someone with passion, someone who could give him excitement. I gave him everything she couldn’t.
” When asked about the pregnancy, Martha had said, “This baby was planned.” Kyrie and I have been trying to start a family together for months. We’re in love, and Sharon was just an obstacle to our happiness. The problem was Martha’s story directly contradicted what Kyrie had told several people about the affair being just physical and the pregnancy being an accident.
When confronted with these inconsistencies, Kyrie had apparently lost his temper with the reporter and said some very unflattering things about both me and Martha. The article made all three of us look bad. But Martha and Kyrie came off as vindictive liars, while I came off as a sympathetic victim who had handled an impossible situation with grace. The response was immediate and overwhelming.
My phone rang constantly with calls from friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers offering support. I received flowers, cards, and even a few job offers from people who had read the article and been impressed with how I’d conducted myself. Kyrie and Martha, on the other hand, became social paras overnight.
I learned from mutual acquaintances that they couldn’t go anywhere without being stared at and whispered about. Restaurants refused to serve them. stores found excuses not to help them. Martha’s few remaining friends from high school stopped returning her calls.
The most satisfying moment came a week after the article was published when I ran into them at the grocery store. I was buying ingredients for dinner with my family when I saw them in the checkout line ahead of me arguing in hushed whispers about something. Kyrie looked terrible. He had lost weight, his clothes were wrinkled, and he had the desperate look of a man whose world was falling apart.
Martha didn’t look much better. Her hair was unwashed, her skin was broken out, and she kept touching her still flat stomach like she was trying to remind herself why all of this was worth it. When Kyrie saw me, his face lit up with a pathetic kind of hope.
He abandoned his place in line and hurried over to me, leaving Martha standing alone with their cart full of generic brands and clearance items. “Sharon,” he said breathlessly. “Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. I blocked your number, I said calmly, not stopping my shopping. Please, just listen to me for one minute. This whole thing has been a nightmare. I know I made mistakes, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.
Anything? I asked, raising an eyebrow. Anything? He confirmed eagerly. Leave town. Take Martha and your baby and disappear from my life forever. His face fell. Sharon, be reasonable. I can’t just then. There’s nothing else to talk about. I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.
The touch of his hand on my skin made me feel sick, but I didn’t let it show on my face. You’re destroying my life, he said quietly, his grip tightening. Your uncle, the newspaper article turning everyone against me. This has to stop. I’m not destroying your life, Kyrie. You destroyed your own life when you chose to betray me with my cousin. But I love you,” he whispered desperately.
“Everything I did, I did because I love you so much. It scared me. I was trying to prove to myself that I could live without you. But I can’t. Please, just give me one more chance.” I looked down at his hand on my arm, then back up at his face. There was a time when those words would have melted my heart, when I would have forgiven him anything because I believed love conquered all. But that woman was gone, burned away in the flames of humiliation and betrayal.
Let go of my arm, I said quietly. Sharon, let go of my arm or I will scream loud enough for everyone in this store to hear me. He released me immediately, his face flushing with embarrassment as he realized how he looked. A desperate man accosting a woman in a grocery store. You want to know the truth about love, Kyrie? I said, my voice carrying just enough to be heard by the people shopping nearby.
Love doesn’t humiliate someone in front of 150 people. Love doesn’t cheat with that person’s family member. Love doesn’t get another woman pregnant while planning a wedding. What you felt for me wasn’t love. It was possession. And I refused to be possessed by anyone ever again.
I walked away from him then, my head held high, my heart finally completely free of Kyrie Robinson. But Martha wasn’t done with me yet. 2 weeks after the grocery store encounter, Martha showed up at my apartment. I had been expecting something like this. People like Martha don’t just fade away quietly when their plans fall apart. They lash out. They blame everyone except themselves, and they always, always come back for one final confrontation.
I was home alone on a Saturday afternoon doing laundry and catching up on some freelance marketing work I had picked up since taking a leave of absence from my regular job. When the doorbell rang, I assumed it was a delivery or maybe Juliana stopping by with coffee.
Instead, I opened the door to find Martha standing in my hallway, and she looked worse than I had ever seen her. Her blonde hair was greasy and pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her face was pale and puffy with dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide. Her clothes were rumpled and hung loose on her frame, like she had lost weight despite being pregnant. But it was her eyes that shocked me most. They were wild, desperate, filled with a rage that made my stomach clench with sudden fear.
We need to talk, she said, pushing past me into my apartment before I could object. Martha, you can’t just shut up, she snapped, whirling around to face me. Just shut up and listen for once in your perfect little life. I left the door open and reached for my phone, but Martha saw what I was doing and knocked it out of my hand.
It clattered across the hardwood floor and slid under the couch. “Sit down,” she ordered. “No.” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to look braver than I felt. Say whatever you came to say and then get out. Martha laughed, but there was no humor in it.
You really think you won, don’t you? You think you’re so smart, turning everyone against us, ruining our lives with your soba story in the newspaper. I told the truth. If that ruined your lives, maybe you should have made better choices. Better choices? Martha’s voice rose to a near shriek. The better choice would have been staying away from your family in the first place.
Do you know what my life was like before I came here? I had nothing, Sharon. Nothing. My mother spent every dollar Uncle Simon ever sent us on drugs and alcohol. I grew up in a trailer park wearing secondhand clothes, eating food from the church pantry. That doesn’t excuse what you did to me, doesn’t it? Martha stepped closer and I could smell alcohol on her breath.
You had everything handed to you. the nice house, the college education, the family who loved you, the uncle who treated you like a daughter. You never had to fight for anything in your entire life. So, you decided to take what was mine. I decided to take what should have been mine from the beginning,” she screamed.
“If my mother hadn’t been such a screw-up, if Uncle Simon had helped us the way he helped your family, maybe I would have been the one with the perfect life. Maybe I would have been the one Kyrie fell in love with first.” The pieces of Martha’s motivation were finally falling into place. This wasn’t just about Kyrie or even about me.
This was about a lifetime of resentment and jealousy that had been festering since we were children. But Kyrie didn’t fall in love with you, I said quietly. He used you the same way he used me. The only difference is I was smart enough to walk away when I found out who he really was. Martha’s face twisted with rage.
He loves me. We’re having a baby together. We’re going to be a family. Where is he now? The question seemed to catch her off guard. What? If you’re such a happy family, where is Kyrie right now? Why are you here alone, drunk, confronting me instead of home with the man who supposedly loves you? Martha’s composure cracked, and for a moment, I saw past her anger to the pain underneath.
He’s He’s looking for work. It’s been hard since everyone in town turned against him. He left you alone to deal with this pregnancy while he’s out looking for work. He didn’t leave me. He’s just he’s stressed. We both are. Money’s tight and I’ve been having some complications with the pregnancy and complications.
Martha’s hand went to her stomach protectively. The doctor said it might be because of stress. All this drama, all the pressure you and your family have put on us. It’s not good for the baby. I felt a flicker of sympathy for her despite everything she had done. Being pregnant and abandoned wasn’t something I would wish on anyone, even Martha.
I’m sorry you’re having complications, I said carefully. But blaming me for your stress isn’t going to help your situation. My situation, Martha’s momentary vulnerability vanished, replaced by renewed fury. My situation is that I’m pregnant and broke because you destroyed the father of my child’s reputation out of spite. I didn’t destroy Kyrie’s reputation. He did that himself when he chose to humiliate me at our wedding.
You could have taken him back. Martha screamed. You could have forgiven him and none of this would have happened. But no, you had to be the victim. You had to make him pay. You had to ruin everything. Taking him back would have meant accepting that he cheated on me with my cousin and got her pregnant.
It would have meant living the rest of my life knowing that my husband didn’t respect me enough to be faithful. So what? Martha threw her hands up in exasperation. Marriage is about compromise. You could have worked it out. No, Martha. Marriage is about trust and respect. Kyrie proved he was incapable of both. And what about me? Martha’s voice broke.
What about my baby? Did you think about us when you were having your revenge? Did you think about me when you were sleeping with my fianceé? The question hung in the air between us like a challenge. Martha stared at me for a long moment, and I could see her trying to find an answer that would justify what she had done. Finally, she whispered, “I thought you were stronger than this. I thought you’d fight for him. I was stronger than that.
I was strong enough to walk away from a man who didn’t deserve me. And now we’re all miserable,” Martha said bitterly. “Kyrie can’t find work. I’m sick and scared. And you’re alone.” “I’m not alone. I have my family, my friends, my selfrespect. What do you have, Martha? The question seemed to break something in her.
She sank down onto my couch, her face crumpling as the fight went out of her. I have nothing, she whispered. Kyrie blames me for ruining his life. He says, “If I hadn’t told you about the pregnancy, you might have taken him back.
He barely talks to me anymore, and when he does, it’s just to complain about how everything is my fault, so leave him.” Martha looked up at me with red rimmed eyes. “I can’t. I’m pregnant with his child. I don’t have anywhere else to go. No money, no family who will help me. You could go home to your mother. My mother died two years ago. Overdose. Martha wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
I came here because I thought I thought if I could get close to Uncle Simon’s family, maybe I could have what you had. A real family. Security love. For the first time since she’d walked into my apartment, I felt genuine pity for Martha. She had made terrible choices, hurt people who didn’t deserve it, and destroyed multiple lives in pursuit of something she thought she wanted.
But underneath all that was just a scared, lonely woman who had never learned how to build a life instead of trying to steal someone else’s. You could have had that, I said gently. If you had come to us honestly as family, Uncle Simon would have helped you. We all would have. But instead, you chose to lie and manipulate and hurt the people who could have loved you.
I know, Martha whispered. I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sharon. I never meant for it to go this far, but it did go that far, and now we all have to live with the consequences. Martha looked up at me with desperate eyes. Can’t you forgive me? Can’t we find a way to fix this? I studied her face.
This woman who had once been a little girl at family picnics, who had grown up feeling abandoned and unloved, who had made a series of terrible decisions that led her to my apartment, drunk and pregnant and begging for forgiveness. “I can forgive you, Martha,” I said quietly. “But I can’t fix this. You and Kyrie made your choices, and now you have to live with them. Together or apart, that’s up to you.
But I won’t be part of your lives anymore.” Martha nodded, tears streaming down her face. I understand. She stood up slowly like an old woman instead of someone in her 20s. At the door, she turned back one last time. For what it’s worth, Sharon, he really did love you. In his own selfish way, he loved you more than he’s ever loved anyone, including me.
I know, I said. And that’s the saddest part of all of this. After Martha left, I sat in my apartment for a long time thinking about love and forgiveness and the price of revenge. I had gotten everything I thought I wanted. Kyrie and Martha were suffering. Everyone knew the truth about what they had done.
And I had emerged as the sympathetic victim who had handled an impossible situation with grace. But as I sat there in the silence of my apartment, I realized that revenge, no matter how justified, leaves you empty in the end. Doesn’t bring back what you lost or heal what was broken. It just ensures that everyone involved carries the scars forever.
I never saw Martha or Kyrie again after that day in my apartment. I heard through the Gossip Network that they left town about a month later. Some people said they went to California. Others claimed it was Texas. Uncle Simon hired a private investigator to find them, not for revenge, but because he wanted to make sure the baby was okay and that Martha was getting proper medical care. The investigator found them living in a small apartment in Denver.
Martha had lost the baby in her second trimester, and Kyrie had abandoned her shortly after. She was working as a waitress in a diner, struggling to pay rent, alone in a city where she knew no one. Uncle Simon sent her money anonymously, enough to get her back on her feet and maybe start fresh somewhere else.
When I asked him why, he said, “She’s still family, Sharon. No matter what she did, she’s still family.” As for Kyrie, the investigator found him working construction in Arizona under a false name. He had apparently told people there that he was divorced, that his ex-wife had cheated on him and taken everything in the settlement.
Even hundreds of miles away, he couldn’t take responsibility for his own actions. I didn’t want revenge anymore by then. I just wanted them both to find some kind of peace, even if they didn’t deserve it. My own healing took longer than I expected.
4 months after the wedding, I would wake up in the middle of the night, my heart racing from dreams where I was still standing at that altar, still feeling the crushing weight of public humiliation. I started seeing a therapist, a kind woman named Dr. Susan, who helped me understand that what I had experienced wasn’t just heartbreak. It was trauma. You weren’t just betrayed by someone you loved, she explained during one of our sessions.
You were emotionally abused, manipulated, and publicly humiliated. It’s going to take time to trust again, not just other people, but your own judgment. He was right. For the first few months, I second-gued every decision I made from what to wear to work to what to order at restaurants.
The confident woman who had stood up to Kyrie and Martha in that cathedral seemed like someone else entirely. But slowly, gradually, I began to rebuild myself. I threw myself into work, taking on bigger marketing projects and eventually starting my own consulting firm. Uncle Simon was my first major client. Helping him expand his restaurant business into catering and event planning.
Working with him reminded me daily that not all men were like Kyrie, that there were good, honorable men who kept their promises and treated women with respect. Juliana became my closest confidant during this time. She had graduated with her teaching degree and gotten a job at the local elementary school, but she made time for me almost every day.
We would meet for lunch, go shopping, or just sit in my apartment talking about everything and nothing. You’re different now, she told me one evening as we shared a bottle of wine on my balcony. Stronger, but also sadder. I feel like I lost more than just Kyrie, I admitted.
I lost my ability to believe in happily ever after. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, Juliana said thoughtfully. Maybe believing in realistic, honest love is better than believing in fairy tales. She was probably right, but it was still a loss I had to grieve. The turning point came 8 months after the wedding that wasn’t at Uncle Simon’s annual Christmas party. I almost didn’t go.
Crowd still made me anxious, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to face all the questions and pitying looks from people who remembered my humiliation. But Juliana insisted, and Uncle Simon personally came to my apartment to escort me to the party. “You’ve been hiding long enough, sweetheart,” he said gently. It’s time to show this town that Sharon Wright is thriving.
The party was held at Uncle Simon’s newest restaurant, a beautiful space with exposed brick walls and soft lighting. About a 100 people were there, family, friends, business associates, and employees from all of Uncle Simon’s restaurants. I was standing near the bar, nursing a glass of wine, and talking to one of my former co-workers when a man approached us.
He was tall, probably in his early 30s, with kind brown eyes and prematurely gray hair that somehow made him look distinguished rather than old. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice warm and slightly nervous. “Are you Sharon right?” My stomach clenched with the familiar anxiety that came whenever a stranger recognized me.
“Even months later, people still sometimes approached me to talk about that awful wedding or to share their own stories of betrayal and heartbreak.” Yes, I said carefully. I’m Michael Murphy, he said, extending his hand. I’m the new head chef at Bella Vista. That was Uncle Simon’s flagship restaurant. Your uncle has told me so much about you. I was hoping we might get a chance to talk.
I shook his hand, surprised by how warm and steady it was. What did you want to talk about? Actually, I have a business proposition for you. I’ve been following your marketing consulting work, and I’m impressed. I’m planning to open my own restaurant next year and I could use someone with your skills to help with the branding and promotion.
We talked for the next hour about his plans for the restaurant, his background in culinary school, and his vision for creating a space that would serve amazing food while also supporting local farmers and suppliers. He was passionate, intelligent, and refreshingly honest about both his dreams and his fears about starting his own business.
More importantly, he didn’t once mention my failed wedding or treat me like a tragic figure to be pitted. He spoke to me like I was a successful businesswoman whose opinion he valued, and I realized how much I had missed being seen that way. “Would you be interested in meeting next week to discuss this further?” he asked as the party was winding down. “I’d like that,” I said and meant it. “Great.
How about lunch on Tuesday? I know a great little place,” he paused, looking embarrassed. Sorry. You probably don’t want restaurant recommendations from a chef you just met. I laughed. A real laugh that felt rusty from disuse. Actually, I’d love to hear your recommendation.
I trust someone who’s passionate about food to know where to find the good stuff. That lunch led to a business partnership that gradually became a friendship, which eventually became something more. Michael was everything Kyrie hadn’t been. honest, supportive, and secure enough in himself that he didn’t need to control or diminish me to feel important.
He knew my story, of course. Everyone in town knew my story, but he never made me feel broken or damaged because of it. Instead, he seemed to admire the strength it had taken for me to rebuild my life after such a public betrayal. “You could have let what happened destroy you,” he told me one evening as we walked through the park where Kyrie and I had once shared our first kiss. Instead, you used it to become stronger, more independent, more successful.
That takes incredible courage. Some days I don’t feel very courageous, I admitted. The bravest people are the ones who are scared, but keep going anyway, he said, taking my hand. And you, Sharon Wright, are one of the bravest people I know. We were married 2 years later in a small ceremony at Uncle Simons house, surrounded by only our closest family and friends. I wore a simple cream colored dress and no veil.
And Michael wore a navy blue suit that brought out his eyes. There were only 30 people there, but every single one of them was someone who truly loved and supported us. Uncle Simon walked me down the makeshift aisle in his backyard, past the rose garden my aunt had planted 20 years earlier.
Juliana was my maid of honor, radiant in a soft pink dress that complimented her dark hair. Michael’s brother was his best man, and his parents had flown in from New Mexico to witness our union. When Father Collins asked if anyone objected to our marriage, I held my breath for just a moment, not because I expected Kyrie to come crashing through the garden gate, but because I was finally ready to believe that I deserved this happiness. No one objected.
Michael and I exchanged vows we had written ourselves, promising to be honest with each other, to support each other’s dreams, and to build a partnership based on trust and mutual respect rather than possession and control. When he kissed me after we were pronounced husband and wife, I tasted salt from my own tears.
Happy tears this time, tears of joy and relief and gratitude for the man who had helped me remember that I was worthy of real love. The reception was held in Uncle Simon’s restaurant with food that Michael had prepared himself and music provided by a local jazz trio. We danced to At last by Eda James, and as Michael held me close, I realized that all the pain and humiliation of my first wedding attempt had been necessary to bring me to this moment.
I never would have been strong enough to recognize real love if I hadn’t experienced false love first. I never would have appreciated a man who cherished me if I hadn’t been with a man who tried to control me. I never would have known how powerful I could be if I hadn’t been forced to stand up for myself when it mattered most. As we danced, I caught sight of Uncle Simon watching us with tears in his eyes.
He raised his champagne glass in a silent toast, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. Sometimes the best revenge is simply living well. 3 years later, Michael and I have a beautiful 18-month-old daughter named Grace, and we’re expecting our second child in the fall.
Our restaurant, Harvest, has become one of the most popular places in town, known for its farm-to-table cuisine and warm, welcoming atmosphere. I still run my marketing consulting firm, though I work fewer hours now that I’m a mother. Uncle Simon remains one of my biggest clients, and he’s also the world’s most devoted honorary grandfather to Grace.
Juliana married her longtime boyfriend last year, and they’re trying to start a family of their own. She teaches third grade and coaches the school’s drama club, channeling her fierce protective instincts into helping shy children find their voices. My mother has fully embraced her role as grandmother, spoiling Grace with homemade cookies and elaborate tea parties.
She’s also dating a nice man from her church, a gentle widowerower who treats her like the treasure she is. Sometimes people ask me if I ever wonder what happened to Kyrie and Martha. If I ever regret how harshly I treated them, if I ever wish I had been more forgiving. The truth is, I rarely think about them at all anymore.
They were characters in one chapter of my story, a painful but ultimately necessary chapter that taught me lessons I couldn’t have learned any other way. I learned that love without respect is worthless. I learned that a man who truly loves you will never try to diminish or control you. I learned that public humiliation can’t destroy you unless you let it.
And I learned that sometimes the worst thing that happens to you turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you because it forces you to become the person you were always meant to be. My name is Sharon Wright Murphy now and I believe in love again. Real love, honest love, the kind of love that makes you stronger instead of smaller. And that I think is the sweetest revenge of all.
