I sat in front of the mirror, my fingers brushing against the lace of my bridal gown, tracing the exquisite floral designs sewn into the fabric.
Today was the day.
I was marrying Sam.
The love of my life.
A tear tickled the corner of my eye, and I chuckled at myself, wiping it away before it fell.
“Careful,” my maid of honor, Lauren, teased from the doorway, holding out a flute of champagne. “We spent way too long on your makeup for you to ruin it now.”
“I just…” My voice wavered. “I can’t believe this is real.”
And in just thirty minutes, I’d be heading down the aisle toward the man I’d loved for what seemed like an eternity.
I stood at the altar, my pulse hammering, my fingers curled around my bouquet, and locked eyes with Sam, my five-year fiancé.
Then the door creaked open.
A woman walked in.
She looked amazing. She had long, dark hair cascading over one shoulder and lips painted a vivid, vibrant red.
But it wasn’t her attractiveness that gave me a cold.
It was how she looked at Sam.
“Aren’t you going to tell them?” she asked, her voice smooth and confident.
“Tell us what?” I swallowed.
“That you’re already married, Sam,” she said.
I glanced at Sam, expecting him to chuckle, shake his head, or just do anything… anything!
But he did not.
Instead, he moved forward.
And then, right in the middle of our wedding, he walked to her.
God help me, he wrapped his arms around her.
Sam moved his lips, whispering something into her ear. Something only she could hear.
She gave a gentle laugh.
“I…” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Hazel, I need to explain this.”
I turned to her, my voice trembling.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Anna,” she said simply.
She was his childhood best buddy. Someone he had been close to for many years. But he never discussed marriage.
“Sam,” I said, forcing the words to come out. “Tell me the truth. Right now. In front of all our family and friends.”
“When we were kids, we had a pretend wedding,” he admitted. “Candy ring pops, a few scribbled vows, and Anna trying to play a song on her ukulele. We thought it was the real deal at the time. We were twelve.”
“But Anna is my best friend, that’s all.”
“Then why did you hold her like that? Why did she just walk in here and say that?”
“A few years ago,” he said, “Anna was in a terrible car accident.”
“The doctors said that she might never walk again.”
“Anna spent years in rehab, fighting to get her life back,” Sam continued. “I invited her to the wedding because how could I not have her here? But she told me that she wouldn’t be able to come.”
“I wanted to walk through those doors by myself,” Anna said just as softly.
“I’ve been practicing with heels for a long time now. I’ve literally been teaching myself how to walk in them for your day.”
“I’m so sorry for the drama, Hazel,” she said, her voice laced with something between guilt and amusement. “Sam and I have always pranked each other, and I thought… why not one last time?”
Tears flowed from the back of my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. This woman clawed her way back up, determined to regain her foothold.
I smiled at Sam.
“And I am so happy for you both. Truly,” Anna said.
The room was still. Then there was laughter.
The tension in the room subsided, and the vibe shifted as the visitors murmured and chuckled gently.
My wedding had been a dream.
The love. The joy. The warmth of it all.
A Woman Gives Birth To Her Son at the Age of 62, But Wait Till You See Her Boy At 17
Wrapped snugly against the winter chill, Patricia Rashbrook, Britain’s eldest mother, cradles her infant son close, radiating the joy of newfound parenthood after years of anticipation.
The revelation of JJ Farrant’s birth stirred a national dialogue, shining a spotlight on Rashbrook’s remarkable journey to motherhood at the age of 62. Born through elective cesarean in July, JJ’s arrival marked the culmination of Rashbrook’s fervent desire for motherhood.
A child therapist by profession, Rashbrook embarked on her unconventional path to parenthood through assisted means, seeking aid from donor eggs in Russia, a country known for its leniency toward older mothers.
Despite Rashbrook’s three grown children from a previous marriage, the prospect of fatherhood was uncharted territory for her second husband, 60-year-old John Farrant. Yet, their decision to welcome JJ into their lives wasn’t impulsive; rather, it was a meticulously considered choice born out of a deep longing to expand their family.
Months of contemplation preceded their decision, eventually leading them to seek the expertise of controversial fertility specialist Professor Severino Antinori. Though their initial attempts at IVF proved fruitless, the eventual success of Rashbrook’s pregnancy with JJ was met with overwhelming joy, even amidst public scrutiny.
Critics decried their actions as selfish, yet Rashbrook remains resolute in her conviction that age alone does not dictate parental capability. Emphasizing their robust health and preparedness for parenthood, Rashbrook dismisses naysayers as uninformed, asserting their commitment to meeting JJ’s every need.
As they venture forth into parenthood, Rashbrook and Farrant cherish each moment with JJ, cherishing their first Christmas as a family with palpable delight. With JJ nestled safely in his car seat, they embark on a day trip from their home in Lewes, East Sussex, epitomizing the pure happiness of newfound parenthood.
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