I was all ready to marry my fiancé in a fairytale wedding. My married life came to a massive standstill when my mother barged into the ceremony and screamed: “STOP THE WEDDING… HE’S YOUR BIOLOGICAL FATHER!” Her revelation ripped me apart, leaving me panting for air.
On my sunny wedding day in New York, I was filled with anxiety and excitement. My mother, who had come all the way from Paris, was running late, and it was almost time to start. Zack, my future husband, was waiting at the altar. I tried to remain optimistic, but not having Mom present was stealing my joy.
Then, out of nowhere, a piercing scream broke through the ceremony.
“April, honey, STOP THE WEDDING!”
My mother, Heidi, appeared exhausted and agitated. She stormed in, gazing daggers at Zack.
“CHRISTIAN?” she shouted, throwing everyone into confusion.
“Christian? Who’s that, Mom? This is Zack,” I said, totally confused.
Mom was fuming. “Don’t play dumb with me, Christian. You shouldn’t be here, especially not with a fake name.”
I was getting scared. “Mom, what’s going on? You know Zack?”
Her next words struck me like a ton of bricks. “I barely made my flight, but I got here just in time. April, he’s not Zack. He’s Christian, YOUR REAL DAD,” she replied, her voice cracking.
I felt like the ground had swallowed me up. Everything turned black. I was taken aback when I opened my eyes to see myself surrounded by worried faces. “He’s… my dad?” I sobbed, unable to process the fact.
Mom nodded, her eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m so sorry, honey. The man you were about to marry, he’s your father. We thought he was gone, but he’s been here all along.”
Mom took a big breath and started telling me about her past: It all started…
Twenty years ago, in Chicago, I met Christian at my workplace, an art gallery. He was nice, and both of us enjoyed art. We immediately began dating, and everything seemed great, like a fantasy. But then he simply vanished, taking my savings and a magnificent Renaissance painting with him.
When I arrived home that day, the entire place was in disorder. He, as well as the painting, had disappeared. But he didn’t realize the painting he seized was a forgery; the genuine one was safe.
At the police station, I explained my position, but they claimed it would be difficult to apprehend Christian without his photo.
I’ve never had a photograph. He wanted to keep our connection covert, and I trusted him too much. I felt confined, like if the walls were closing in. I implored the cops to do more, but there seemed to be nothing they could do.
A sketch artist was called. I described Christian, and sketches of him quickly circulated across town. It was a little step in the correct direction.
I went to the station several times. But each visit brought defeat.
As days turned into weeks without hearing from Christian, my determination rose. I kept promising myself that I would find him, whatever it took.
I even went to his favorite pub and sat for hours, hoping he’d stop by. But then I understood his passion for art might be his undoing – the best method to catch him.
So I decided to create a trap with the actual masterpiece, hoping to draw him out. Despite my reservations, I was willing to try anything.
At the auction, my heart was racing. I mixed perfectly with the posh crowd while waiting for Christian. He was there, pretending to be another wealthy bidder. When he raised his paddle to paint, I knew my trap was set.
He won the bidding, and precisely on cue, an undercover cop poured water on him. That’s when I noticed it—the scar on his neck. That was all the evidence I needed to prove it was him. As Christian was about to pay, the cops encircled him. “Christian, you’ve been arrested!” they announced.
I felt a sense of relief. My plan had worked, and we were finally going to get him.
But then Christian dropped his suitcase, and it popped open—empty. The police cried, “Don’t move!” But Christian simply smirked and pulled something from his pocket. Suddenly, the room was filled with tear gas, and Christian escaped with the picture.
He fled AGAIN. I could not believe it.
His face was all over the wanted posters, yet he was never apprehended.
Then the blowback struck me. People assumed I was in on it with Christian. My job was on the line. “I was trying to catch him, not help him!” I attempted to explain, but it was as if I were talking to a wall. On top of everything, I discovered I was pregnant.
I chose to start over in Paris, away from the chaos. It was only me and the new life growing inside me, hoping to find some calm.
I clutched Mom’s hand tightly, tears welling up in my eyes. “It’s so unfair, what happened to you, Mom.”
She sounded sad but hopeful. “Even after everything with Christian, my love for you, April, keeps me going.”
A sense of remorse stabbed through me. How could I have been so unaware? The age gap I’d ignored, Zack’s insistence on keeping our relationship quiet, the nagging dread I’d occasionally felt—it all came pouring back. My happy wedding day came crashing down right in front of me.
I glanced at Mom with tears.
“I had no idea he was your… he was Christian. I had to stop the wedding, sweetheart,” she said.
Everyone at the wedding could not believe it. The entire event came to a halt due to this massive secret.
Then, Christian attempted to flee. But he didn’t get very far before everyone started after him.
Mom looked terrified and dialed 911. “There’s been a crime,” she added, her voice shaking.
Everything that transpired left me feeling completely exhausted.
I just hugged Mom, trying to feel better. I was relieved as I watched the police take Christian away.
Later that day, we visited the police station. But Mom remained cool, and her voice did not waver as she informed the investigators about all the tricks Christian had pulled. “He had it all figured out from the start. The art cons, stealing that old painting—he did it all.”
The detective nodded, his pen resting on the notes he was taking. “And you’re saying he kept the original Renaissance painting all this time?”
“Yes,” an officer from the questioning room responded. “He’s confessed. The crook intended to sell the painting through a black market auction. He’d been holding onto it for years, waiting for the right moment.”
When they examined Christian’s home, they discovered an abundance of stolen paintings. It turned out that Mom and I were not his only victims. In the midst of all this chaos, reclaiming that artwork felt like a small win.
Mom gazed at Christian with keen eyes before we left. “You’ve done a lot of damage, Christian,” she told me. “But in the end, justice wins.”
Walking out of there, artwork in hand, it was as if a weight had been lifted. This chapter of pain had come to an end, and we could now begin to mend things gradually.
