The Wedding Crasher
The church was filled with white lilies and soft organ music. I was standing at the altar, holding hands with the man I had loved for three years. He looked perfect in his tuxedo, smiling at me with tears in his eyes. Everything was perfect. Then came the part of the ceremony everyone dreads but nobody expects to actually happen. The priest cleared his throat and asked, "If anyone here has any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
The silence lasted for three seconds. Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the church slammed open. A woman in a disheveled coat marched down the aisle. She wasn't alone. She was holding a crying baby in her arms.
"He isn't who you think he is! He's a deadbeat dad!"
The guests gasped. My fiancé turned white as a sheet. The woman reached the front row and screamed that the groom was the father of her six-month-old son. She shouted that he had blocked her number, moved states, and hadn't paid a dime of child support in a year. She threw a stack of court papers at his feet.
Before anyone could process the revelation, my father—a retired marine—didn't wait for an explanation. Seeing his daughter's heart break in real-time, he lunged. In a moment of pure protective rage, the bride's father tackled the groom at the altar, sending the priest, the flowers, and the rings crashing to the floor. The wedding ended not with a kiss, but with police sirens and a groom leaving in handcuffs.
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