My Father’s New Wife: A Week to Rewrite My Heart

The gold lettering on the ivory envelope shimmered in the sunlight, but all I could see was my own trembling hand clutching it. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Dad,” I whispered, my voice so thin it was barely there. There it was: ‘Mr. John Anderson & Miss Rebecca Miller request the honor of your presence…’ My father’s name, next to a woman I’d never even met. And the date—just one week away.

I stormed into the kitchen, slamming the invitation on the counter. Mom’s old mug was still there, a faded ‘Best Mom Ever’ etched on the side. I stared at it, feeling a wave of nausea. It had only been two years since she died. Two years, and Dad was already remarrying. I bit my lip, the metallic taste of blood grounding me as my phone buzzed, vibrating the countertop.

It was Dad. Of course.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice too bright, too cheerful. “Did you get the invitation?”

I swallowed, hard. “Yeah, Dad, I got it. A week? You couldn’t even give me a heads-up?”

There was a pause. “I know it’s sudden, Zuzu. But Rebecca… she makes me happy. I really want you to be there.”

I pressed my fist to my chest. “You never even told me about her! I had to find out with an invitation—like some distant relative. Do you even care how this feels?”

He sighed. “I tried, honey. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought this would be a good way to bring everyone together.”

“Are you serious? Bringing everyone together by blindsiding me?”

He went quiet. I hung up before he could say anything else.

If I’m honest, I think I already knew. Little hints—a second mug in the sink, perfume that wasn’t Mom’s, Dad humming again. But I never wanted to believe he could move on so quickly. Not from her. Not from us.

Later that night, I called my best friend, Megan. She listened quietly as I ranted, then said, “You have to meet her, Zu. You can’t judge until you meet her.”

“I don’t care if she’s Mother Teresa. It’s too soon.”

Megan sighed. “But what if she’s good for your dad? What if you’re shutting yourself off?”

I threw my pillow across the room. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours,” she said softly. “Always. But maybe give her a chance?”

The week crawled by, each day heavier than the last. Dad texted, left voicemails, tried to stop by. I ignored him. I didn’t want to see the hope in his eyes—or the guilt.

Saturday morning came, bright and cruel. I dressed in black, a silent protest, and let Dad drive me across town. Rebecca’s house was a creamy Colonial with hydrangeas out front. I wanted to hate it, but I couldn’t. It looked like every dream I’d ever drawn as a kid.

Rebecca opened the door. She had kind eyes—green like moss, with crinkles at the edges. Her smile faltered when she saw my expression.

“Hi, Zuzanna. I’m Rebecca.”

I crossed my arms. “It’s Zuzu. Or just Zoe.”

She nodded, like she was memorizing it. “Zoe. Would you like some lemonade?”

My dad hovered behind her, silent. I glared at him. “I’m good.”

Rebecca led us to the living room. There were photos everywhere—her with a boy about my age, a golden retriever, Christmas trees, beaches. I felt like an intruder, an extra in a life that had nothing to do with me.

“We wanted to talk before the wedding,” Rebecca said, folding her hands. “I know this is hard. I can’t replace your mom. I wouldn’t want to.”

I looked at Dad. “Did you ever even love her? Or was it always this easy to move on?”

He flinched. Rebecca reached for my hand, but I pulled away.

“She was my best friend, Zuzu. I miss her every day. But I can’t live in the past forever.”

Tears burned my eyes. “I’m not asking you to. But you left me behind.”

Rebecca’s son, Tyler, wandered in then. He looked at me, then at his mom, then at my dad. “Hey. You must be Zoe.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Tyler grinned—awkward, but friendly. “Want to play Mario Kart? I’ll let you win.”

Against my will, I laughed. Dad smiled, relief flickering across his face.

The afternoon blurred by. Tyler was funny, and Rebecca tried so hard to include me without forcing it. But the ache never really left. At dinner, Rebecca set a plate in front of me—Mom’s famous lasagna recipe, somehow exactly right.

“I called your Aunt Laura for the recipe,” Rebecca said quietly. “I wanted you to feel at home.”

I stared at the food, my throat tight. “Thanks,” I mumbled, then pushed the lasagna around my plate.

When we left, Dad hugged me in the driveway. “I know it hurts,” he whispered. “But I hope, someday, you’ll forgive me for trying to be happy again.”

I didn’t answer. I just stared at the house, the hydrangeas, the new life I was supposed to be a part of.

The wedding was small. I wore blue, not black. Rebecca smiled at me through tears as she said her vows. Tyler stood next to me, silent support in a sea of strangers.

Afterward, Dad squeezed my hand. “Thank you for coming, Zuzu. For giving us a chance.”

I looked at Rebecca, at Tyler, at my dad—so hopeful, so scared. I wasn’t sure if I belonged yet. But maybe, just maybe, I could try.

Do we ever really get over losing someone, or do we just learn to make space for something new? Can a broken family ever truly feel whole again? I’m still searching for the answer.