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. 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.