I always thought the hardest part of planning a wedding would be picking cake flavors—not defending my daughter’s place in my life.

I’m forty-five, divorced, and father to Paige, my eleven-year-old with more grit than most adults. Her mom and I split cleanly, and I promised Paige she’d never compete for space in my world.

Then I met Sarah. For four years she seemed to adore Paige. Movie nights, spaghetti dinners, laughter until the dishes soaked cold. When she said yes to my proposal, it felt like we were just making legal what already was.

During wedding planning, Sarah said she wanted her niece to be the flower girl. I suggested Paige walk beside her. Sarah’s smile faded. “I don’t think Paige fits the part,” she said.

When I said Paige would be in the wedding or there’d be no wedding, her mother texted that I was “overreacting.” The mask slipped.

The next morning, Sarah admitted she hoped I’d become a “holiday-visit dad” after we married — that Paige wouldn’t be in photos because she “wouldn’t be around much.”

I slid off her ring. “She’s not a habit,” I said. “She’s my child.”

That evening, Paige showed me a drawing of the two of us under a big red heart. I told her there wouldn’t be a wedding — because love that can’t include her isn’t love at all.

We kept the honeymoon tickets and made our own plans: snorkeling, pancakes, reading on the beach, counting stars. She called it our Daddy-Daughter Moon.

The cake can be any flavor. The venue can be anywhere. But the only vow that matters is the one I made the day she was born.