“Any regrets?” Nate asked later as fireworks exploded over the Space Needle in bursts of gold and silver and blue. I thought about the empty chairs at my wedding, the 30 minutes of waiting, the cruel book Bella had given me, the check torn into confetti pieces. “Not one,” I said. He kissed me as the countdown hit midnight, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years around my family.
safe, valued, loved. 6 months after the wedding, I got an email from Preston Sterling’s lawyer. Not from Preston himself. I guess his lawyer thought that was more appropriate. The divorce had been finalized. Bella had signed without contesting. Preston had paid her $75,000 to walk away quietly and sign an NDA preventing her from discussing the marriage or its dissolution publicly.
Mr. Sterling wanted you to know, the email concluded, that your video gave him clarity about who he’d married. He’s grateful in retrospect that you showed him the truth before he invested more time in the relationship. He wishes you and your husband well. I showed the email to Nate.
He read it twice and then looked at me. Do you feel vindicated? No, I said honestly. I feel sad for all of us, for the family we could have been if anyone had just cared. Their loss, Nate said, pulling me close. Completely their loss. Bella tried to rehabilitate her image, posted a carefully worded apology on Instagram about making mistakes and learning and growing.
Never mentioned me by name. Never actually took responsibility. just vague platitudes about being human and imperfect. Her followers didn’t buy it. The comments were brutal. She eventually deleted the post. Then she deleted her entire Instagram account and started over with a new handle, new branding, trying to rebuild from 47,000 followers instead of 2.3 million.
Last I heard from mutual acquaintances, people who knew both of us but weren’t close to either. She was working as a social media manager for a small boutique in Dallas, making $45,000 a year, living with our parents because she couldn’t afford her own place anymore. My father’s business recovered eventually. The sterling deal was dead, but he found other partners, other projects, smaller projects, less prestigious, but he survived.
My mother sent me a birthday card this year. No return address, but I recognized her handwriting. Inside was a simple note. I’m sorry I didn’t come to your wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I understand if you never want to speak to me again, but I wanted you to know that I think about you every day. Love, Mom. I haven’t responded.
I don’t know if I will. Dr. Hang says that’s okay. that I get to decide what forgiveness looks like, what relationship looks like, what family means, that I’m allowed to build a new definition with people who actually show up. And I have. Nate’s family throws me birthday parties, remembers my favorite foods, asks about my architecture projects, and actually listens to the answers.
His mother texts me photos of her garden and asks for design advice on the gazebo she’s planning. It’s not the family I was born into, but it’s the family I chose, and sometimes that’s better. Last week, Nate and I were having dinner with his parents when Patricia asked about our plans for the future. We’re thinking about kids, Nate said, squeezing my hand.
Maybe in a year or two, Patricia’s face lit up. Oh, how wonderful. Have you thought about names? We had. We’d been talking about it for months. If it was a girl, we wanted to name her Patricia after Nate’s mother. If it was a boy, we wanted to name him James after Nate’s grandfather who’d passed away 2 years ago.
We want our kids to be named after people who showed up, I said. People who were actually there when it mattered. Patricia’s eyes filled with tears. She reached across the table and took my hand. Your children are going to be so loved, so surrounded by family who will show up for every moment. And I believed her because she’d proven it.
She’d shown up to my wedding when my own mother hadn’t. She’d included me in family traditions. She’d made space for me at the table. That night, driving home, Nate asked, “Do you think you’ll ever talk to your parents again?” “Maybe,” I said. “Someday. When I’m ready. If I’m ever ready, and if you’re not ready, then I’m not. And that’s okay, too.” He nodded.
Didn’t push. Didn’t try to convince me that family was worth forgiving. just because they were family. Just accepted my answer and moved on. That’s what real family does. They accept you. They show up. They don’t throw your wedding invitations in the trash and then act surprised when you’re hurt.
I’m not the Montgomery daughter anymore. I’m Caroline Vance, architect, wife, future mother, daughter-in-law to people who actually act like family. I design buildings. I design spaces where people feel safe, where they feel at home, where they feel valued. And I’ve learned to design my life the same way. with careful planning, with strong foundations, with walls that keep out the people who would do harm.
Bella made her choice when she threw that invitation in the recycling bin. My parents made their choice when they believed her lies instead of calling me. They chose their comfort over my truth. And I chose myself, chose my husband, chose the family that actually showed up. I have zero regrets about playing that video at Bella’s wedding.
Zero regrets about exposing the truth. Zero regrets about walking away from people who never valued me. Because here’s what I learned. You can’t make people love you. You can’t make them show up. You can’t make them choose you. But you can choose yourself. You can build a life with people who do show up.
You can create your own definition of family. And sometimes the best revenge isn’t revenge at all. It’s just living well, being happy, being surrounded by people who would never ever throw your wedding invitation in the trash. Bella wanted to be the golden child, the favorite, the one everyone paid attention to, and she got her wish.
She just didn’t realize the attention wouldn’t always be positive. I wanted a family that showed up, that cared, that loved me for who I was, not who they wanted me to be. I didn’t get that from the Montgomery, but I got it from the Vances.
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