I thought I was marrying the man who loved me and my kids like his own. Then I overheard him and his mother laughing about taking my house, using my kids, and dumping me after the wedding. So I planned.
And when it was time to say “I do,” I chose something better.
Most people only get one second chance at life. Mine came with three extra hearts.
I was 36 when my sister passed. I didn’t hesitate — I became a mom to her twin girls, Selena and Mika, overnight.
I already had my son, Harry, and somehow, with hand-me-down backpacks and freezer meals, we made it work.
Love wasn’t something I was looking for.
Until I met Oliver.
He was charming without trying too hard, kind without putting on a show, and on our third date, I told him I was a package deal: three kids, no time, no games.
His answer?
“I’m not scared of a ready-made family, Sharon. I’m grateful. Let me be the man who stays, love.”
I laughed — more out of disbelief than anything — but he proved himself.
He made dinner, helped with homework, and built pillow forts with Harry on rainy days. He said he wanted the girls to call him “Dad.”
I fell anyway.
The wedding was going to be small — just close friends, a handful of coworkers who’d held my hands through hard years, and family who had watched me claw my way back to joy.
We were two days away, and everything was in motion.
Oliver was staying at his parents’ house across town. That Thursday evening, he FaceTimed me while I was folding laundry in my room.
“Hey, quick question,” he said, his face filling the screen.
“Table runners — blush or red?”
He flipped the camera toward a sample board of linens.
I held up the floral mock-up from the planner.
“Blush. It’ll match the roses perfectly.”
“Perfect,” he said, flashing that easy grin. “Hold on, darling.
My mom’s calling me.”
The screen went black.
I waited. I figured he’d pop back on any second. Or maybe he just needed to ask her something about the rehearsal dinner.
Then, I heard voices.
“Did you get her to sign it, Oli?” a woman asked.
I recognized her voice immediately. It was Sarah, my soon-to-be mother-in-law. Her voice was clipped and purposeful.
Oliver chuckled, low and confident.
“Almost, Mom.
She’s weird about paperwork. But after the wedding? She’ll do whatever I say, I promise.
Especially with those freak kids of hers… She’s clinging to security. That’s the card I hold.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
