I was weeks away from my wedding, and my bachelorette trip had been planned for months—sun, laughter, and one last wild adventure with my girls. But then came the call: my stepdad’s cancer had taken a turn. Hospice. Final days. My mom begged me to stay. I hesitated. He’d raised me like his own, but I felt torn between duty and joy. I chose the trip.
The guilt hit before the plane did. I smiled for photos, drank champagne, but my heart was back home. My phone buzzed constantly—updates, tears, silence. Then the message: he was gone. I hadn’t said goodbye. I hadn’t held his hand. I hadn’t been there.
When I returned, the house felt hollow. My mom wouldn’t look at me. My siblings were cold. I tried to explain, to justify, but the truth was brutal—I’d abandoned them in their darkest hour. My wedding felt cursed. The joy I’d chased came at a cost I hadn’t imagined.
Now, I live with the ache of that choice. I replay it often, wondering if I could’ve done both. But life doesn’t offer rewinds. Just lessons. I learned that timing is cruel, and love demands sacrifice. My stepdad deserved better. And I’ll carry that regret into every vow I make.
