The Man My Mother Married

I followed him silently, my eyes boring into the back of his head. This man was no driver, he was something I couldn’t explain. I had never seen anyone except my mother make Mrs. Ivanoski act so humbled.

He paused and turned slowly.

Behind those dark glasses was the same cold look. He tilted his head slightly down, his gaze fixed on my bruised ankle while I still wore my ballet shoes beneath the pretty dress.

“What?” I asked, subconsciously hiding my bruised ankle behind my other leg.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the passenger seat and opened the door, waiting.

I hesitated.

With a tired sigh, I walked to the seat and reached for the door to close it, but instead, he gently removed my fingers from it. Not rough, just careful, like I was some fragile thing that could break in a second.

I followed him with my eyes until he finally sat in the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror.

Throughout the car ride, there was pure silence. Not the kind I found comforting whenever my usual driver picked me up. This one was heavy.

I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at him, and in return, our gazes would meet through the rearview mirror.

I quickly looked away, my fingers shaking slightly. The confidence mask I wore was cracking bit by bit. I took my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through it.

Maybe this would distract me from this little misery.

I noticed Mom hadn’t even messaged me the entire time. Instead, she had written a damn letter, like we were living in the eighties, even though I wasn’t even born then.

“Well, what do I expect?” I scoffed, tossing the phone onto the seat before crossing one leg over the other and removing my shoes.

The sight of my blistered foot disgusted me a little, even though it was something I saw daily. I began humming one of the songs the pianist had played earlier during practice.

I rubbed the swollen area tenderly, wincing in response. Before I could lower my foot, the weird driver stretched a tube toward me. His eyes remained on the road, but he kept glancing at me, a crease forming between his brows.

“W… what’s this?” I asked, staring at the tube in his hand.

Instead of answering, he gestured again for me to take it.

I had grown not to trust strangers. I was taught never to take random things from people. But with him… it felt like something was pushing me to accept it.

I looked at the writing on the tube. It was in Russian. I raised my head toward him, my brows furrowing in concern.

“For your legs,” he answered without looking into the mirror.

I huffed silently and placed my swollen ankle on the seat while resting sideways against the couch.

I rubbed the ointment onto my ankle, and the cooling effect started instantly.

My eyes lit up with excitement. “Wow… where did you get this from?”

“I own it.”

That was his response. No warmth in his voice.

I shook my head and continued applying it over the old bruises on my legs that still hurt. Slowly, the silence started becoming comforting.

Well, not for long.

“You know it isn’t ladylike to put your feet on the seat,” he said quietly.

Oh.

I instantly dropped my feet and sat up straight. He noticed my reaction.

“Do it,” he muttered. “Just this once.”

Okay.

I slowly placed my feet back onto the seat and continued rubbing the ointment in, annoyed at myself for letting some random driver — who probably didn’t even own the car — remind me about manners.

…

We finally arrived at the venue, and my mouth widened in awe. It was the well-known ZEN Event Mansion. The kind even an average rich man wouldn’t dare afford.

Cameras flooded the place like flies. Men in uniform stood everywhere.

And on a giant banner, the words Wedding of the Century were written boldly.

I turned to face the driver.

But he was gone.

Panic instantly settled into my chest. I hated looking vulnerable in public, and Mom definitely wouldn’t like me being recorded injured in front of cameras.

But she didn’t know.

“Mister?” I called out, my voice cracking slightly in panic. “Where are you? Please get my mom?”

Unfortunately, there was no response. Only flashing lights from the waiting reporters and paparazzi, all curiously wondering who I was inside that car.

Suddenly, a group of women in corporate uniforms rushed toward me, shielding me from the cameras.

“Miss, I was asked to give this to you.”

One of them held out a cream-colored box. I took it without asking questions, my heart still racing. All I wanted was to get away from the cameras as fast as possible.

I looked around, my body shaking.

Dorothy, you can do this. Just go into the building and nothing will happen.

But none of the self reassurance could stop the sinking feeling in my chest.

One of the women instantly bent down to block the cameras while another quickly opened the box.

Inside was a pair of white Mary Jane shoes with short heels.

“Wow.”

They were so lovely to look at that I momentarily forgot about the tension around me.

The woman gently slipped them onto my feet and assisted me into the building. That gesture only made the swarm of reporters even more curious about who I was.

Why was I being protected by random women in uniforms and surrounded by armed guards all the way to a dressing room?

I was both curious and worried. I had never received this kind of preferential treatment before, even though I had been in public countless times.

“Mrs. Kace asked us to bring you in,” one of them explained while adjusting my dress. Another woman stepped forward with a pearl necklace. “Mrs. Kace made sure we fixed your look, miss.”

I didn’t say a word. I only nodded, agreeing to every little thing they wanted to do to me. But what irritated me most was the constant reminder of what my mother wanted, even on her wedding day.

“Please get this over with…” I groaned politely, leaning back in the vanity chair facing the mirror. “I’m late already.”

My hair was styled into a smooth bun, with soft tendrils framing my face perfectly.

Without warning, the door burst open.

A man holding another card walked in swiftly. “The wedding is about to start, miss. Your mother wants you in the front seat.”

I stood up instantly, anticipation twisting in my chest.

I bet my questions would finally be answered soon.

I just hoped the man she was marrying was like Dad and nothing like her.

I couldn’t bear living with two perfectionists.

…

Inside the large opulently designed hall, guests sat at their reserved tables. The VIPs occupied the special tables near the front.

I noticed them immediately. All dressed in luxury, dripping in expensive jewelry. The occasion felt more like a fashion gala than a wedding.

The women who had helped me retreated, except for one. She led me toward a table at the front.

The moment I stepped forward, everyone turned their heads toward me. The chatter and gossip stopped instantly.

They all stared at me.

I remembered something my father once told me before he left Mom.

“Never let them see you crack. Keep your head high at all times.”

So I did exactly that. I ignored them and focused instead on why I was the only one seated at this particular table.

Couples whispered among themselves while glancing at me. Some looked impressed. Others looked less than pleased.

Soon, the wedding began. Mom walked in wearing a beautiful white sequined wedding dress, looking as young as ever.

Then I saw him.

Her husband-to-be. My soon-to-be stepfather.

He stood at the altar with his back facing us.

Something about the way he stood spoke volumes. Authoritative. Confident. And something else I couldn’t explain. Something that drew me in so much I forgot I was supposed to be focusing on my mother.

“I do.”

The vows were exchanged. Rings followed. Then the kiss.

I couldn’t wait for it to finish.

Nausea hit me all at once. I rushed toward the nearest restroom and threw up violently.

I stared at myself in the mirror, my eyes red with hidden tears. I fiddled with my dress, the only thing making me smile at that moment even though my chest ached.

“She really did it,” I muttered, tugging harder at the fabric. “She threw him away just like that.”

Bitterness settled inside me. A part of me had still hoped my parents would get back together someday, even after four years of divorce.

But seeing her in another man’s arms, kissing him, was unbearable.

My phone suddenly rang.

Come to the reception, Mom texted. Running away like that is so uncouth of you.

I swallowed hard.

I knew exactly what that meant.

The part I hated the most.

Interacting with fake people.

I straightened up, wiped my eyes with a napkin, and walked back into the hall where everyone stood in groups, drinking and talking.

The room suddenly felt smaller and tighter. I didn’t realize I had been standing there too long until someone grabbed my hand.

“Where have you been?” my mother asked, her hands wrapping around my waist. “Everyone is watching. They want to meet you.”

“Who?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Dor,” she snapped quietly. “You know what I mean.”

I swallowed hard as expectations crowded my mind. I gently held onto her arm.

“Mom, please.”

She scoffed. “Stop being a baby. I didn’t raise you to cower in front of people.”

Then she leaned closer.

“Now put on a big smile and wipe that foolish expression off your face. I don’t like it.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me deeper into the reception hall, her cold expression replaced by a soft motherly smile only I could see through.

“Your stepfather wants to meet you,” she whispered while leading me past groups of guests greeting her.

Then her eyes landed on my dress.

“Your dress,” she muttered. “I’ll only pardon it today. After this, throw it away.”

What?

Wasn’t she the one who gave it to me? Why did she suddenly want me to throw it away? She shot me a glare that stopped me from asking further questions.

“Sebastien,” she called in a sickly sweet high-pitched voice, “come meet our daughter. My Dorothy.”

The moment my supposed stepfather turned around, my heart dropped into my stomach.

Instead of relief, anger burned inside me.