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Beside me, my husband Marcus stood up. He didn’t yell. He didn’t flip the table. He simply rose, straightened his jacket, and walked away from our head table toward the projector my dad had insisted on for the “cute engagement slideshow.”
My father chuckled into the mic. “Oh, the groom wants to respond. This should be good
The rest were his business partners, his golf buddies, his clients, people he wanted to impress.
“This is my daughter’s wedding,” he told anyone who would listen. “I’m sparing no expense.”
Every time I tried to make a decision—the menu, the music, the seating chart—he overruled me.
“I’m paying $45,000 for this venue. I think I get a say.”
He said that exact sentence at least a dozen times over the next three months.
$45,000. As if that number gave him ownership over my wedding day. Over me.
I wanted to push back. I wanted to say no. But twenty-nine years of conditioning had taught me that fighting Richard Foster wasn’t worth the cost.
So I let him plan my wedding. I let him invite his people. I let him control everything.
June 2024, three months before the wedding, my Aunt Helen called Marcus with a favor. She was selling my grandparents’ old house, the one they’d left her in the will, and needed help with some of the legal paperwork. Marcus specialized in family law and estate matters, so she figured he could point her in the right direction.
He agreed to look over the documents.
That’s when he found it.
Buried in a folder of old bank statements and tax records, there was a statement from August 2013. An account in my name. The education fund my grandparents had set up before they died. $47,000 withdrawn in full on August 15th, 2013. Transferred to a personal checking account belonging to Richard M. Foster.
Marcus called Aunt Helen immediately.
“Did you know about this?”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “I always wondered why Dalia had to take out loans. Your grandparents left her enough to cover everything.”
“Richard told me to stay out of it. He said it was family business and I should mind my own.” Her voice tightened. “I was afraid of him. We all were.”
Marcus made a copy of the bank statement. Then he made another copy and locked it in his office safe. He didn’t tell me. Not yet. He said later that he wanted to be sure, wanted to have more than just one piece of paper before he brought it to me.
But that night, he started digging deeper into my father’s finances, into his business dealings, into the secrets Richard Foster had been hiding for years.
He found more than he expected.
July 2024, two months before the wedding, I found my dress at a boutique in San Francisco. Ivory silk, delicate lace sleeves, a fitted bodice that made me feel, for the first time in my life, like someone worth looking at.
The price tag read $3,200.
I called my mother to share the news, excited and nervous. The next day, my father called me.
“$3,000 for a dress you’ll wear once?” His voice was sharp. “Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m paying for it myself, Dad.”
“With what money? Your little job in San Francisco?”
My “little job” pays $127,000 a year.
He laughed. Actually laughed.
“Sure it does. Listen, I’ll find you something for $800. You don’t need to waste money on—”
“I’m buying this dress.”
Silence. Three seconds. Four.
“Fine. Waste your money. But don’t come crying to me when you can’t pay your rent.”
He hung up.
