The day I heard that my ex-husband was going to remarry, my stomach collapsed. It had been three years since our divorce, but the wound still felt raw, as if time had done little to heal it.

I told myself that I had kept going, that I was stronger now, that I didn’t care. But when I learned who he was marrying, a storm of emotion rose in me. Friends whispered the news in hushed voices:

“He marries a woman in a wheelchair. Can you believe it? Poor thing.”

These words awakened something dark in me. Instead of compassion, I felt a distorted sense of pride. I thought, “So his choices led him there? He left me only to end up with someone who can’t even walk next to him.”

This selfish thought ignited a fire in me. I was determined to attend the wedding, not to celebrate, but to show off. To shine brighter. To prove that I was the woman he should never have let go.

Preparing to be seen
That night I stood in front of my mirror for hours. I wanted to be unforgettable.

I slipped into a crimson dress that clung to me like a second skin. My hair, carefully curled, fell in perfect waves. My makeup was flawless, every detail designed to dazzle.

In my mind, I rehearsed the moment: I entered the wedding hall, heads turned, whispers made the rounds and comparisons were drawn. I would be radiant, powerful, untouchable. And she, confined to her wheelchair, would pale in my shadow.

It was cruel. It was in vain. But at the time, it felt like justice.