“Emily, Emily!” her mother’s voice came from the doorway.
“What is it now?” Emily snapped. “Oh, it’s just the maid. Let me see what she wants.”
Her mother stepped in, smiling warmly.
“My little girl… today’s your wedding photoshoot! I wanted to be there with you to meet your fiancé. I even wore the dress your grandmother gave me.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed.
“That old thing? You look like you’re on your way to the market, Mom.”
“What’s wrong with that?” her mother asked softly. “I just wanted to be by your side.”
“Don’t call me daughter,” Emily hissed.
“Omar comes from an elegant family. I need to meet his standards. You’ll only embarrass me.
Please, leave.”
Her mother’s face fell. “I just wanted to see you happy.”
“Go,” Emily said firmly, turning to the photographer. “We can continue now.”
A few days later, her mother appeared again, carrying envelopes.
“These are the payments for the reception and the hall,” she said gently. “Everything’s so expensive, Emily. How will you afford it?”
“Mom, it’s my wedding.
Don’t start,” Emily replied sharply. “You should be grateful I’m letting you help.”
“You want my money,” her mother said quietly, “but you’re ashamed of me. How did we end up like this?”
That night, Emily vented to her best friend.
“Are you seriously going to hide your mother?” her friend asked, stunned. “I’m not hiding her,” Emily insisted. “I’m protecting my image.
Omar’s family would never accept that my mother is Indigenous.”
“Emily, that’s awful,” her friend said, shaking her head. “I can’t be part of this.”
“Then I’ll handle it myself,” Emily said coldly. Days later, she hired an actress named Marina to pose as her mother at the wedding.
“You’ll say you’re a widow, a successful businesswoman who lived in Europe,” Emily instructed. Marina frowned. “You shouldn’t start a marriage with lies, Emily.”
“I’m paying you well.
Do you accept or not?”
Marina sighed. “Fine. But you’re playing with fire.”
At the rehearsal dinner, fate intervened.
Omar opened the door and there stood Citlali, Emily’s real mother, holding a freshly pressed shirt. “Hello, young man,” she greeted kindly. “I brought your wedding shirt.”
Emily’s stomach dropped.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
