“My son cannot get married in a cheap public hall,” she said. “Businessmen, officials, important clients will be there.”

My father, humiliated, offered to sell his truck and his mowers to pay for a luxury hotel.

“No, Dad. I won’t let you do that,” I told him. “I’d rather cancel the wedding than take away your living.”

Tristan apologized afterward, over and over, and promised he’d be at the venue. I wanted so badly to believe him.

On the day, he arrived forty minutes late, trailing his parents and a cluster of wealthy relatives.

He wasn’t worried in the slightest, because he’d come fully prepared to burn our dignity to the ground.

After announcing the cancellation to the crowd, he pointed at my father. “I don’t intend to spend my life with a father-in-law who cuts grass for spare change,” he sneered into the mic.

Some people looked away. Others murmured that Tristan was only protecting his status. Mara smiled and added that families should know their place.

My father staggered, and I caught him before he could go down. Then he began to cry against my shoulder, his tears soaking into my dress.

“Forgive me, daughter,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “If I’d had more money, no one would have treated you like this.”

And then he walked to the center of the room, bowed his head, and apologized to everyone for making them come to a wedding that wouldn’t happen.

Watching him ashamed of a lifetime of honest work broke my heart worse than losing the man I was supposed to marry.

That was when the sirens started outside.