Just as the wedding music began, panic replaced joy—Amelia, my nine-year-old stepdaughter and flower girl, had vanished. Minutes later, we found her locked inside a supply closet, quietly crying with her flower basket in her lap. What she whispered next shattered everything.

Amelia had once told me, “I hope you stay forever.” She wasn’t just my stepdaughter—she was my heart. She’d poured herself into our wedding, dreaming of being the flower girl. But when the music started, my toddler niece walked down the aisle instead.

The ceremony stopped. We found Amelia curled up in a supply closet, tear-streaked and terrified. “Why was I in trouble?” she sobbed. “She said I needed a timeout.” She pointed—at my sister-in-law, Melanie.

Melanie sneered, “She’s not even your real daughter. My Emma deserves the spotlight for once.”

We escorted her out.

Amelia clung to my hand. “This is still your moment,” I told her. The music restarted. Amelia walked down the aisle to a standing ovation. She scattered petals with pride, strength in every step.

That night, she said, “Remember when I was the bravest flower girl ever?”

“I remember,” I told her. “And I always will.”