On my sunny New York wedding day, I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. My mom, coming all the way from Paris, was running late, and it was almost time to start. Zack, my soon-to-be husband, was waiting at the altar. I tried to stay hopeful, but not having Mom there was eating away at my happiness.

Then, out of nowhere, a loud scream cut through the ceremony.

“April, honey, STOP THE WEDDING!”

It was my mom, Heidi, looking all worn out and frantic. She barged in, staring daggers at Zack.

“CHRISTIAN?” she shouted, throwing everyone into confusion.

“Christian? Who’s that, Mom? This is Zack,” I said, totally confused.

Mom was fuming. “Don’t play dumb with me, Christian. You shouldn’t be here, especially not with a fake name.”

I was getting scared. “Mom, what’s going on? You know Zack?”

Her next words hit me like a ton of bricks. “I barely made my flight, but I got here just in time. April, he’s not Zack. He’s Christian, YOUR REAL DAD,” she said, her voice trembling.

I felt like the ground swallowed me up. Everything went black. When I opened my eyes, surrounded by worried faces, I was in shock. “He’s… my dad?” I sobbed, unable to grasp the reality.

Mom nodded, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, honey. The man you were about to marry, he’s your father. We thought he was gone, but he’s been here all along.”

Mom let out a deep breath and started to tell me about her past: It all began…

Back in Chicago, twenty years ago, I met Christian at the art gallery where I worked. He was charming, and we both loved art. We soon started dating, and everything felt perfect, like a fairytale. But then he just disappeared, taking my savings and a valuable Renaissance painting with him.

When I got home that day, the whole place was in disarray. The painting was gone, and so was he. But he didn’t know the painting he took was a fake; the real one was safe.

At the police station, I tried to explain my situation, but without Christian’s photo, they said it would be hard to catch him.

I never had a photo. He wanted our relationship to stay private, and I trusted him too much. I felt so trapped, like the walls were closing in. I begged the police to do more, but it felt like there wasn’t much they could do.

A sketch artist was called. I described Christian, and soon, sketches of him were circulated in and around town. It was a small step in the right direction.

I visited the station several times. But with each visit came defeat.

As days turned into weeks with no word from Christian, my determination grew. I kept telling myself I’d find him, using whatever it took.

I even went to his favorite pub and sat for hours, thinking he might visit. But then I realized his love for art could be his downfall — the best way to catch him.

So I decided to set a trap with the real masterpiece, hoping it would draw him out. Despite my doubts, I was ready to try anything.

At the auction, my heart was racing. I blended in with the fancy crowd, waiting for Christian. He was there, pretending to be just another rich bidder. When he raised his paddle for the painting, I knew my trap was set.

He won the auction, and right on cue, an undercover cop spilled water on him. That’s when I saw it — the scar on his neck. That was the sign I needed to confirm it was him. As Christian headed to pay, the cops surrounded him. “Christian, you’re under arrest!” they announced.

I felt a wave of relief. My plan had worked; we were finally going to get him.

But then, Christian dropped his suitcase, and it popped open — empty. The cops yelled, “Don’t move!” But Christian just smirked, pulling something from his pocket. Suddenly, the room was full of tear gas, and in the chaos, Christian slipped away with the painting.

He escaped AGAIN. I couldn’t believe it.

His face was all over the wanted posters, but he was never found.

Then, the backlash hit me. People thought I was in on it with Christian. My job was on the line. “I was trying to catch him, not help him!” I tried to explain, but it was like talking to a wall. And on top of everything, I found out I was pregnant.

I decided to start over in Paris, away from the mess. It was just me and the new life growing inside me, trying to find some peace.

I held Mom’s hand tight, my eyes all teary. “It’s so unfair, what happened to you, Mom.”

She sounded sad but hopeful. “Even after everything with Christian, my love for you, April, keeps me going.”

A pang of guilt stabbed at me. How could I have been so oblivious? The age difference I’d brushed aside, Zack’s insistence on keeping our relationship private, the subtle unease I’d sometimes felt — it all came flooding back. My happy wedding day fell apart right before me.

I looked at Mom through my tears.

“I had no idea he was your… he was Christian. I had to stop the wedding, sweetheart,” she said.

Everyone at the wedding couldn’t believe it. The whole thing stopped because of this huge secret.

Then, Christian tried to run away. But he couldn’t get far before everyone started chasing him.

Mom looked really scared and dialed 911. “There’s been a crime,” she said, her voice all shaky.

I felt so drained by everything that happened.

I just hugged Mom, trying to feel a bit better. Watching the police take Christian away, I was relieved.

Later that day, we were at the police station. But Mom was calm, and her voice didn’t even shake as she told the detectives about all the tricks Christian had pulled. “He had it all figured out from the start. The art cons, stealing that old painting—he did it all.”

The detective nodded, his pen pausing over the notes he was taking. “And you’re saying he kept the original Renaissance painting all this time?”

“Yes,” an officer from the interrogation room chimed in. “He’s confessed. The crook intended to sell the painting through a black market auction. He’d been holding onto it for years, waiting for the right moment.”

When they searched Christian’s place, they found it packed with all sorts of stolen art. It turns out Mom and I weren’t his only victims. Getting back that painting felt like a small victory in all this mess.

Before we left, Mom looked straight at Christian, her eyes sharp. “You’ve done a lot of damage, Christian,” she said. “But in the end, justice wins.”

Walking out of there, painting in hand, it was like a weight lifted. This chapter of hurt was finally over, and now we could start fixing things, bit by bit.