50 bikers blocked church doors at my wedding and wouldn’t let my father walk me down the aisle. My mother was screaming. My bridesmaids were crying. Two hundred guests sat inside waiting while I stood on the church steps in my white dress watching my father’s face turn purple with rage.
“Move,” my father demanded. “That’s my daughter. This is her wedding day. I’m walking her down that aisle whether you like it or not.”
“No sir. You’re not.”
My fiancé Jake appeared beside me, confused and panicked. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”
I couldn’t speak. Because I recognized the patches on their vests. I’d seen those patches before. Fifteen years ago. When I was eleven years old and too terrified to tell anyone.
“Sweetheart,” my father said through gritted teeth, trying to sound reasonable. “Tell these men to move. You’re embarrassing us.”
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