My daughter asked me to cover her wedding

I sat down heavily on the edge of my bed. The room suddenly felt very cold. “That’s impossible,” I said. “I gave her two hundred thousand dollars for the down payment. The monthly payments on the remainder should be manageable with both your salaries. Where did the money go?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus whispered. “She handles the finances. She told me she set up auto-pay. But I did some digging after I saw the letter. The account is empty, Arthur. And now she wants this lavish wedding that costs nearly six figures. I think… I think she spent the house money on deposits and designers.”

My heart sank. It wasn’t just about the money; it was the deception. I had worked forty years in construction, breaking my back to build a legacy for my family. After my wife passed, I poured everything into Vanessa. I wanted her to have the security I never had growing up. But somewhere along the line, my desire to provide had turned into her expectation to receive.

“Meet me at the diner on 4th Street in twenty minutes,” I told Marcus. “Don’t say a word to her.”

When I arrived, Marcus looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He was nursing a black coffee, his eyes red-rimmed. He slid a stack of papers across the sticky table. They were bank statements and credit card bills.

I put on my reading glasses and scanned the documents. The numbers didn’t lie. The two hundred thousand dollars hadn’t gone to the principal of the loan. It had been funneled into a separate account, and from there, it was a horror show of spending. Luxury handbags, five-star resort trips she claimed were “work retreats,” and massive deposits for wedding vendors.

“She didn’t put the money down, Arthur,” Marcus said, his voice trembling. “She put down the minimum—three percent. She kept the rest. And now that money is almost gone, and we’re about to lose the roof over our heads.”

I felt a mix of rage and sorrow that is hard to describe. “She called me cheap,” I muttered, shaking my head. “She called me cheap because she knew she had already burned through her inheritance.”

“I can’t marry her,” Marcus said, tears finally spilling over. “Not like this. I love her, but I can’t build a life on lies.”

“No,” I said firmly. “You can’t. But we are going to fix this. Not with money, but with the truth.”

We drove to the house together. It was a beautiful colonial I had been so proud to help them get. The lights were on. I used my key to let us in. Vanessa was in the living room, surrounded by bridal magazines, sipping a glass of wine.

She looked up, annoyed. “Dad? What are you doing here? Marcus, I thought you were picking up dinner.”

“We need to talk, Vanessa,” I said, my voice low and dangerous.

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