Locked Out of My Own Wedding - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
You are reading Locked Out of My Own Wedding, Chapter 3: Chapter 3. Read more chapters of Locked Out of My Own Wedding.
The endless wedding ceremony was finally over.
Alexander appeared in the doorway of the dressing room, rubbing his temples like he'd just run a marathon. "I'll make this right," he said wearily. "I'll explain everything to your parents—"
I cut him off. "Don't bother. They're my parents, not yours." The unspoken words hung between us - he'd forfeited any right to call them family.
His face went slack with surprise.
Exhaustion lined his features as he tried again: "Don't say things you don't mean. You know Sophia's sick. Was it really so wrong to indulge her?" Even now, he was making excuses for her.
I felt the last thread of patience snap. "If you think this is just me being dramatic, fine. I'm moving out today. We're selling the house - or you can buy out my share. Just wire back what my family contributed."
Spotting my parents through the crowd, I hurried after them, tossing a final "We're done" over my shoulder.
A cluster of relatives had descended on them like vultures. As I pushed through, my second aunt's shrill voice carried: "Who gets left at the altar these days? So embarrassing." She turned to my mother with that fake-concern tone all gossips master: "This is what happens when girls are too headstrong."
I physically inserted myself between them. The humiliation on my parents' faces made my chest ache. "Whose side are you on, Auntie?" I demanded, throwing etiquette out the window. "He switched brides without consulting me - that's not 'headstrong,' that's him being a selfish coward. If I'd known yesterday what I know today, there wouldn't have been a wedding at all!"
She huffed away, muttering about "disrespectful youth."
Mom gripped my hand, her worry palpable. "It's fine," I lied smoothly. "Not getting married might be the best thing that ever happened to me."
After seeing them off, I went alone to the house that was supposed to be our home. My hands were steady as I packed, but my traitorous eyes kept leaking.
Every corner held memories: the ceramic pot Alexander bought after my first menstrual cramp episode ("I'll make you soup every week"); the ridiculous walk-in closet with its TikTok-worthy lighting (his proudest DIY project); even the way he'd nuzzle my neck when he wanted attention.
We'd met in college - him dazzled by some debate trophy I'd won, me charmed by his persistence. Seven years of shared history now fit into one and a half cardboard boxes.
I was debating how to haul them to the dump when the door burst open. Olivia tornadoed in, arms already outstretched. "Should've been your damn bridesmaid," she muttered into my hair. Her plane had barely landed when she heard the news and came running.
She'd hated Alexander from day one - called him a "wishy-washy ex-obsessed manchild" and sworn she wouldn't attend what she called "your future divorce pre-party." We hadn't spoken for months after that fight.
Now here she was, burning vacation days to play breakup nurse, already swiping through her contacts to set me up. "If you take him back," she warned, "I'm dead to you."
I was mid-laugh when Alexander showed up with his sad grocery store bouquets. Dad played soccer with his apology gifts until the neighbors started gawking. When he finally got inside? Went straight to our kitchen like he still belonged there.
Some people just don't know when to quit.
Alexander appeared in the doorway of the dressing room, rubbing his temples like he'd just run a marathon. "I'll make this right," he said wearily. "I'll explain everything to your parents—"
I cut him off. "Don't bother. They're my parents, not yours." The unspoken words hung between us - he'd forfeited any right to call them family.
His face went slack with surprise.
Exhaustion lined his features as he tried again: "Don't say things you don't mean. You know Sophia's sick. Was it really so wrong to indulge her?" Even now, he was making excuses for her.
I felt the last thread of patience snap. "If you think this is just me being dramatic, fine. I'm moving out today. We're selling the house - or you can buy out my share. Just wire back what my family contributed."
Spotting my parents through the crowd, I hurried after them, tossing a final "We're done" over my shoulder.
A cluster of relatives had descended on them like vultures. As I pushed through, my second aunt's shrill voice carried: "Who gets left at the altar these days? So embarrassing." She turned to my mother with that fake-concern tone all gossips master: "This is what happens when girls are too headstrong."
I physically inserted myself between them. The humiliation on my parents' faces made my chest ache. "Whose side are you on, Auntie?" I demanded, throwing etiquette out the window. "He switched brides without consulting me - that's not 'headstrong,' that's him being a selfish coward. If I'd known yesterday what I know today, there wouldn't have been a wedding at all!"
She huffed away, muttering about "disrespectful youth."
Mom gripped my hand, her worry palpable. "It's fine," I lied smoothly. "Not getting married might be the best thing that ever happened to me."
After seeing them off, I went alone to the house that was supposed to be our home. My hands were steady as I packed, but my traitorous eyes kept leaking.
Every corner held memories: the ceramic pot Alexander bought after my first menstrual cramp episode ("I'll make you soup every week"); the ridiculous walk-in closet with its TikTok-worthy lighting (his proudest DIY project); even the way he'd nuzzle my neck when he wanted attention.
We'd met in college - him dazzled by some debate trophy I'd won, me charmed by his persistence. Seven years of shared history now fit into one and a half cardboard boxes.
I was debating how to haul them to the dump when the door burst open. Olivia tornadoed in, arms already outstretched. "Should've been your damn bridesmaid," she muttered into my hair. Her plane had barely landed when she heard the news and came running.
She'd hated Alexander from day one - called him a "wishy-washy ex-obsessed manchild" and sworn she wouldn't attend what she called "your future divorce pre-party." We hadn't spoken for months after that fight.
Now here she was, burning vacation days to play breakup nurse, already swiping through her contacts to set me up. "If you take him back," she warned, "I'm dead to you."
I was mid-laugh when Alexander showed up with his sad grocery store bouquets. Dad played soccer with his apology gifts until the neighbors started gawking. When he finally got inside? Went straight to our kitchen like he still belonged there.
Some people just don't know when to quit.
End of Locked Out of My Own Wedding Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Locked Out of My Own Wedding book page.