When I first heard Amber was getting married, I laughed—until I realized everyone knew but me. My best friend, the girl I grew up with, hadn’t even sent me an invitation. I waited, thinking it was a mistake. But as dress fittings and bachelorette posts flooded social media, it became clear—I’d been deliberately excluded.

I finally confronted her at a nail appointment. She smiled, talked about her neutral polish, and didn’t wear a ring. Still, she said nothing. I didn’t ask. I wanted her to say it. But she never did.

So, I showed up at the wedding. I didn’t sneak in. I walked through the front doors like I belonged there—because once, I did. The room fell silent. Amber stood in her wedding gown, frozen. But the groom? That’s what shattered me. It was my father. The man who abandoned me at ten years old.

Amber had known. She kept this from me. No wonder I wasn’t invited. My father stood there, his arm around her like he hadn’t destroyed my childhood. He said my name, but I wasn’t that girl at the window anymore. I asked him why. I asked her how. Neither had answers worth hearing.

“I hope it was worth it,” I told Amber, before walking away from both of them—my best friend and my father.

That night, Amber texted: Please talk to me. I deleted it without a second thought.

For the first time, I stopped waiting by the window. And this time, I was done for good.