When my fiancée and I first set about planning our wedding, I assumed the greatest challenges would be choosing between beef or salmon for the dinner, or debating between a country manor and a seaside chapel. Never did it cross my mind that the true conflict would revolve around the person dearest to memy own daughter.
At five-and-forty, I was no stranger to loves trials. Id once been wed, endured the bitter parting that followed, and emerged with the light of my life: my eleven-year-old girl, Matilda. She was sharp as a tack, quick to laugh, and bore a strength that put most grown men to shame. Through the heartache of the divorce, shed astonished me with her spirit, and I swore then she would never play second fiddle to anyone.
When I first courted Eleanor, now my former betrothed, she seemed everything a man could wish for. At nine-and-thirty, she was gentle, kind, and for four long years, she doted on Matilda as if she were her own. We baked together, lost evenings to old black-and-white films, and whiled away weekends in fits of laughter. When I knelt to propose, she wept as she said yes, and for a time, I believed all was right in the world.
Eleanor threw herself into the wedding plans with a fervour that bordered on obsession. Every detailfrom the roses to the lace on her gownwas pored over as if she were staging a spectacle for the pages of *Tatler*. I told myself it was harmless, that her joy was worth the fuss.
Then came the evening that tore it all asunder.
We were nestled on the settee, fabric samples strewn about, when Eleanor remarked, Ive decided my niece shall be the flower girl. Shell be utterly charming.
A fine choice, I agreed. Matilda would be over the moon to stand beside her.
Eleanors smile faltered. Matilda doesnt suit the role, she said coolly.
I stared. Shes my child. She belongs at my side, in the wedding.
Her arms folded. The bridal party is my decision, and Matilda shant be part of it.
The words struck like a blow. If Matilda isnt in the wedding, I said, my voice low, then therell be no wedding at all.
That night, I took Matilda for a cone at the village ice cream parlour. As she swung her legs in the booth, she murmured, I reckon Ill look quite smart in whatever frock Eleanor fancies. My heart near shattered.
Later, Eleanors mother sent a curt note: *Youre making a mountain out of a molehill. The child neednt be in the ceremony.* That was when I saw the truth of it all.
By morning, Eleanor confessed. Shed hoped that after the vows, Id become just a Christmas-and-Easter father. She didnt want Matilda in the photographs because it wouldnt do once she was no longer about.
You expected me to cast my own flesh and blood aside? I demanded. Matilda comes before all. You knew that.
Eleanor wept, claiming shed thought Id ease my grip once we were wed. I plucked the ring from her finger and laid it on the sideboard. Ill not wed a woman who treats my daughter as baggage, I said.
Her mother came knocking later, fair incensed. Youre tossing away your future for a child wholl fly the coop soon enough! she spat. I shut the door in her face.
That evening, Matilda sat at the kitchen table, sketching away. She held up a drawing of the two of us beneath a great red heart. My throat clenched. Therell be no wedding, poppet, I told her softly.
Because of me? she asked.
Never, I said. Its off because Eleanor didnt understand youre half my soul. If someone cant love us both, they shant have either.
Matilda was quiet, then whispered, So its just you and me again?
You and me. Always.
A small smile crept back. I like that better.
I grinned. Good. Because dyou know what? That honeymoon we booked in Cornwallyou and I are taking it instead. Just us, the sea, and all the ice cream you can stomach.
Her squeal fair shook the rafters. Best honeymoon ever!
I held her close, knowing Id lost a bride but kept something far dearermy childs trust. Some loves are fickle, fleeting. But a fathers love? Thats forever.
And as Matilda whispered, Its you and me forever, isnt it? I kissed her brow and murmured, Forever, Matilda. Forever.
