When my sister Beth announced she was engaged, I was over the moon for her. She said she met someone special at a wellness retreat, and after everything she’d been through, I wanted to believe in her happiness. But as her wedding day got closer, Beth started acting stranger than I’d ever seen her before. Deep down, I knew something was terribly wrong.
Let me tell you about Beth.
Beth is one of those rare people who lives life in full color. She’s two years older than me and has always been beautifully intense. She’s creative, smart, and sees magic everywhere — in a sunset, a song, or even the way a cup of tea steams. She’s the kind of person who reads romance novels like they’re a guidebook to life, believing with all her heart that everyone deserves a fairy tale ending.
When we were kids, Beth was the dreamer, and I was the practical one. While she was busy scribbling stories about princesses and knights, I was focused on homework and making plans for my future career. But that’s what made us work so well as sisters. She brought magic into my ordered world, and I helped keep her feet on the ground when her imagination ran wild.
Beth has always fallen in love fast—and hard. In high school, she’d meet a guy on Monday and be planning their future wedding by Friday. She’d write their names together in her notebooks and dream about what their big day would look like. Most of those crushes fizzled out quickly, but Beth never lost her faith in true love. She believed, no matter what, that it was out there for her.
That faith took a huge hit a few years ago.
Beth had been with a guy named Marcus for almost two years. For once, she was head-over-heels in love and sure it was forever. She talked about marriage, kids, and a dream house like they were just around the corner. I’d never seen her so happy or certain about anything.
Then one day, she showed up at my apartment, tears streaming down her face, barely able to speak.
“Marcus has been cheating on me,” she sobbed. “For months… with someone from work. And he’s been telling people I’m ‘too clingy’ and that I ‘live in a fantasy world.’”
That broke her completely.
Beth, who was always bubbly and outgoing, suddenly shut down. She stopped answering texts, quit the book club she loved, barely called Mom and Dad. When I visited, she made excuses—“I’m tired,” or “I’m busy”—but I could see the light inside her fading. It felt like watching someone slowly disappear.
After six long months of this, Beth surprised us all by saying she needed a total reset. She had found a wellness retreat in Arizona focused on healing and self-discovery.
“I just need space to figure out who I am, without anyone else,” she said over coffee, looking more worn out than I’d ever seen her.
We all understood. Beth needed to heal, and maybe this retreat would bring her spark back.
She was gone for three weeks. When she came home, she seemed… different. A little lighter, a little brighter—like the old Beth we missed.
That’s when she told us about Nathaniel.
“I met someone,” she said, her eyes shining with that familiar dreamy look. “His name is Nathaniel. He’s kind, thoughtful, and he really sees me for who I am.”
Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. Beth’s beautiful, funny, and has this way of making people feel special the moment they talk to her. What surprised me was how fast everything moved.
Just two months after coming home, Beth announced she and Nathaniel were engaged. She showed up to Sunday dinner wearing a simple engagement ring and practically glowing with happiness.
“It happened so fast,” she told our stunned parents. “He proposed during a sunset hike. It was perfect.”
She explained Nathaniel was from overseas, and because of his complicated work visa, they needed to marry quickly so he could stay in the country while finishing his projects.
“It’ll be a small wedding,” Beth promised. “Just family and a few close friends. His groomsmen are flying in from abroad, then he’ll head back overseas for work.”
We hadn’t met Nathaniel yet, which felt a bit strange but not impossible. Beth always had romantic reasons for keeping things private.
“He’s old-fashioned about pictures,” she’d say. “Thinks they steal a moment’s magic.”
Or, “He’s shy around new people. I want our first meeting to be perfect.”
Looking back, I realize we all had questions we didn’t voice out loud. Why the secrecy? Why no video calls? Why so rushed?
But Beth seemed happy for the first time in years. None of us wanted to spoil that.
The morning of the wedding, I arrived early at the little chapel downtown to help set up. The place was beautiful—white roses everywhere, soft lights casting a warm glow. Everything looked perfect.
But from the moment I stepped into the bridal suite, something felt wrong.
Beth was all done up—hair curled, makeup flawless—but she wasn’t calm. She paced, her voice quick and nervous.
“Nathaniel’s parents are flying in from London,” she rambled. “They’re so formal. I hope I make a good impression. I’ve been practicing my handshake.”
“I can’t wait for you to meet him,” she added, breathless. “He’s shy in crowds, so his groomsmen are handling most of the social stuff.”
“They planned this whole symbolic entrance with special music,” Beth went on. “It’s about joining two souls across continents. Isn’t that romantic?”
I tried to help her relax, but Beth insisted she wanted to be alone to “soak in the moment.” She gently shooed me, Mom, and even her maid of honor out.
Soon, guests started arriving.
Looking around, I noticed almost everyone was family or friends from Beth’s work and book club. No one looked like Nathaniel’s family or friends. I thought maybe they were late or sitting somewhere else.
I had no idea how wrong I was.
The wedding coordinator gave the signal, and the music began. Beth appeared at the back of the chapel, radiant and smiling. She walked down the aisle like a princess.
But when she reached the altar, my heart sank.
She was alone.
The music shifted, signaling the groom’s entrance. Everyone turned to the doors. We waited.
And waited.
The doors stayed shut. No Nathaniel. No groomsmen. No overseas guests.
Then Dad stood up from the front pew, walking slowly to the altar with a pink leather journal in his hand.
I could feel the room holding its breath.
Dad took the microphone from the confused officiant, his hands shaking.
“I’m sorry, everyone,” he said, voice breaking. “But this wedding can’t happen. Please, everyone leave—now.”
Gasps and murmurs filled the chapel. Dad held up the pink journal so everyone could see.
“There is no groom,” he said, voice steady despite his shaking hands. “Nathaniel isn’t real. None of his groomsmen exist. No one is flying in from abroad. I found this journal in Beth’s bridal suite. It’s filled with letters to a man who doesn’t exist.”
Here’s what happened:
Dad had gone to check on Beth one last time before the ceremony. When she didn’t answer, he thought she’d stepped out to calm down.
The room was messy—scattered hairpins, makeup, crumpled tissues. That’s when he noticed the journal, lying open next to her practice bouquet.
At first, he thought it had wedding plans or vows inside.
Instead, he found page after page of letters addressed to “Nathaniel”—imagined conversations, fake dates, detailed stories of a relationship that only lived in Beth’s mind.
Each entry grew more desperate, building a whole fantasy where she was loved and cherished by someone who was never there.
Dad looked toward Beth, trembling at the altar, tears streaming down her cheeks, her makeup smeared.
“She needs help,” he said softly. “Not applause. Not congratulations. She needs us. She needs her family.”
Beth finally broke down.
“You ruined everything!” she screamed at Dad. “You don’t understand! He was real to me! Everything we had was real!”
The guests quietly left the chapel. Some stopped to say kind words to our parents; others just wanted to escape the awkwardness.
But I only saw Beth, alone in her beautiful dress, crying into her veil as her perfect fantasy shattered.
I went to her side, sitting on the altar steps beside her, not caring that I was still in my bridesmaid dress or that people were watching us.
She collapsed against me, crying harder than I’d ever seen anyone cry.
“He felt so real, Stacey,” she whispered between sobs. “Every conversation, every moment. I could see his face, hear his voice, even feel his hand in mine. How could something that felt so real… not exist?”
We got Beth the help she desperately needed.
The next months were hard for all of us. Therapy, doctors, family meetings. We learned Beth was struggling with a complex trauma response and a dissociative coping disorder, triggered by the betrayal of Marcus and the long emotional isolation that followed.
The road to healing was slow. Beth had to face the painful truth: she’d built an elaborate fantasy world to protect herself from loneliness and pain. She needed to learn healthy ways to cope, and how to connect with real people again.
Bit by bit, with therapy, medication, and family love, Beth began to heal.
She reconnected with old friends, joined a trauma support group, and even started dating again—this time with support and realistic hopes.
Four years later, Beth met Jordan in an art therapy class. Jordan was quiet and kind, a software engineer who loved Beth’s creativity and didn’t try to change her.
Their relationship grew slowly and naturally, built on friendship and respect.
When Beth married Jordan last spring, it was a small, simple ceremony in our parents’ backyard.
This time, when Beth walked down the aisle, her eyes found Jordan’s face immediately. He was real, solid, and smiling with tears in his eyes.
I can’t describe how happy I felt for my sister. She finally found the love she had always dreamed of—the real kind.
