My daughter asked me to cover her wedding

She rolled her eyes. “If this is about the wedding budget again, save it. I deserve this day, Dad. You have millions sitting in the bank doing nothing.”

“It’s not about the wedding,” Marcus said, stepping forward. He threw the foreclosure notice on the coffee table. “It’s about this.”

Vanessa’s face went pale. She stared at the paper, then up at us. “I can explain,” she stammered. “It was just a mix-up with the bank.”

“Stop it,” I snapped. “We saw the statements. You took the down payment money. You blew it on clothes and trips and this fantasy wedding. You lied to Marcus, and you lied to me.”

She stood up, defensive now. “So what? It was my money! You gave it to me! I wanted to enjoy my life while I’m young, not wait until I’m old and boring like you. I was going to pay the mortgage back after the wedding. We would get cash gifts!”

“You were gambling on gifts to pay for a house you can’t afford?” I asked, incredulous. “Vanessa, you are thirty years old. This isn’t a mistake; this is fraud.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she scoffed. “Just write a check, Dad. Fix it. You always fix it. If you don’t, I’ll be homeless, and that will look great for your reputation, won’t it?”

That was the moment something snapped. Not my temper, but the cord of guilt I had been holding onto since her mother died. I realized I hadn’t been helping her; I had been crippling her.

“No,” I said quietly.

The room went silent. Vanessa blinked. “What?”

“No,” I repeated. “I am not writing a check. I am not fixing this. You want to live like a grown woman? Then you will face the consequences like one.”

“But… the house,” she gasped. “They’ll take it.”

“Then let them take it,” I said. “You didn’t buy it anyway. You rented it with a down payment you stole.”

She turned to Marcus, eyes pleading. “Marcus, baby, tell him. We need this house.”

Marcus looked at her, and I saw the heartbreak in his eyes. He took a slow breath. “I’m done, Vanessa. The wedding is off.”

The scream she let out was primal. She threw her wine glass against the wall, shattering it. She screamed that I was a terrible father, that Marcus was a loser, that we were ruining her life. We stood there and took it until she ran out of breath.

“I’m leaving,” Marcus said. “I’ll come for my things tomorrow.”

“And I’m leaving too,” I said. “Vanessa, you have one month before the bank evicts you. I suggest you find a job that pays better than your ‘lifestyle’.”

I walked out with Marcus. We stood on the sidewalk in the cool night air.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Marcus said.

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