My Fiancé Said My Miscarriage ‘Ruined His Bachelor Party’ – Little Did He Know My Dad Wouldn’t Let Him Get Away with It

I thought my life was finally settling into the perfect picture I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl playing with baby dolls in my parents’ backyard.

I was engaged to Derek, who was charming and absolutely adored by everyone who met him.

My friends were jealous. My coworkers gushed about how lucky I was. Even strangers at the coffee shop would see my engagement ring and smile as if they knew something magical was happening in my life.

And I was 6 months pregnant with what would have been our first child.

The wedding was in three weeks. My dress was hanging in the spare bedroom, wrapped in plastic and waiting for its moment. The venue was booked, the flowers were ordered, and the photographer had already sent us a mood board for the big day.

Everything felt golden, like I was finally stepping into the life I was supposed to have all along.

Derek left for his bachelor party on a Saturday night, kissing my forehead and promising he’d be responsible and be home by midnight. I trusted him completely.

I spent that evening curled up on the couch, scrolling through baby name websites and folding the tiny onesies we’d started collecting. I kept smiling to myself, imagining Derek as a father, picturing our little family.

Then, around 9 p.m., I felt a strange cramp.

At first, I brushed it off. I’d read all the pregnancy books, and I knew that cramps could be a normal part of pregnancy. But then another cramp came, sharper this time. And another. The pain grew from uncomfortable to alarming to absolutely blinding in a matter of minutes.

My hands started shaking so badly that I could barely hold my phone. I called Derek, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

No answer.

I tried again, the pain getting worse, spreading through my abdomen like fire.

Still nothing.

I called five more times, each one going straight to voicemail or ringing endlessly. He finally answered on the 7th call. I could hear loud music thumping in the background, along with people laughing and shouting.

“What?” he yelled into the phone, his voice breathless and irritated. “Lily, what now? I’m kind of in the middle of something!”

Through tears that were already streaming down my face, I told him everything. I told him how scared I was and how I thought something was really wrong with the baby.

My voice broke as I begged him to please come home, to please take me to the hospital.

There was a pause. For just a second, I thought he was processing what I’d said.

Then he sighed loudly, as if I had just asked him to pick up milk on his way home.

“Oh, come ON, Lily. Are you seriously doing this right now? Couldn’t you wait ONE NIGHT? This whole thing just ruined my bachelor party!”

And with that, the line went dead.

He hung up on me.

I collapsed on the bathroom floor, the phone still clutched in my hand, crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.

The pain was unbearable, but somehow, the fact that Derek had just dismissed me felt even worse. I sat there alone, bleeding and terrified, feeling like the world had tilted sideways and I couldn’t find my balance.

I don’t know how long I stayed there before I finally called my dad.

He answered on the first ring, his voice immediately alert. “Lily? What’s wrong?”

“Dad,” I sobbed. “I need help. Please.”

Twenty minutes later, my father burst through my front door.

He found me still on the bathroom floor, pale and shaking, and his face went from worried to absolutely devastated in an instant.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered, dropping to his knees beside me.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t waste time. He just wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, helped me to his car, and drove me straight to the emergency room. His hand gripped mine the entire way, and I could see tears running down his cheeks even though he was trying to stay strong for me.

At the hospital, my dad held my hand through every terrible moment.

He stayed with me during the examination, during the ultrasound where the doctor’s face went carefully neutral, and during the conversation where they gently explained that there was no heartbeat anymore.

I had lost the baby.

My father wept with me, his forehead pressed against mine, telling me over and over that it wasn’t my fault. He told me everything would be okay.

But Derek? He never showed up.

As the nurses finished up and my dad helped me into a wheelchair to take me home, he leaned down close to my ear.

His voice was trembling but filled with something hard and deadly calm.

“He will not get away with this,” he whispered. “I promise you, Lily. He will not get away with this.”

My dad drove me home the next morning, his arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders as we walked from the car to my front door. I felt empty, completely hollow, like someone had scooped out everything inside me and left nothing but an aching void.

Derek stumbled through the door around noon, smelling like stale perfume and beer, his shirt wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot. He looked like he’d slept in his car or maybe not slept at all.

He saw us standing there and immediately started complaining about his headache and about how tired he was.

He didn’t ask how I was. He didn’t ask about the baby.

When I finally found the courage to speak, my voice came out small and broken. “Derek, why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

He looked at me like I’d just asked the dumbest question in the world.

“Oh my God, Lily, I was NOT okay to drive. What did you expect me to do? Crash the car on the way there? You need to grow up. Miscarriages happen all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”

I felt my dad go completely still beside me. When I glanced at him, his face was stone, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles working. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Derek with an expression that would have terrified me if it had been directed at me.

Over the next few days, Derek grew even colder.

He acted annoyed whenever I cried, like my grief was an inconvenience he had to work around. When my mom called to check on the wedding plans, Derek brushed her off and said we’d “figure it out later,” as if I had personally ruined his schedule by losing our baby.

I tried to process what had happened, tried to make sense of the pain and the loss, but Derek made everything worse.

He complained that I wasn’t “fun anymore.” He said I was being dramatic. He even dared to suggest that maybe the miscarriage was “for the best” since we could “party more at the wedding now.”

As a result, I barely ate or slept. I just cried, alone in our bedroom, while Derek went out with his friends and acted as if nothing had happened.

The whole week was a blur of canceled appointments, hushed phone calls with the wedding planner, sympathetic looks from my mother, and Derek pretending that I had somehow overreacted to losing our child.

Then, five days after the miscarriage, my phone buzzed with a text from my dad.

“Come to my office. You need to see something. Come alone.”

I stared at the message, confused. My dad had his own accounting firm downtown, a small office he’d run for 20 years. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted me there, but something in his tone made me grab my keys immediately.

When I arrived, I pushed open the glass door and walked down the familiar hallway to his private office. My hand was on the doorknob when I heard voices inside. One of them was my dad’s. The other was Derek’s.

My heart skipped a beat.

When I opened the door, I found Derek sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, his face pale as a ghost. He looked absolutely terrified. When he saw me, his eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

My dad stood behind his desk with his arms crossed.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Dad, why is Derek here?”

“Sit down, sweetheart,” Dad said gently. “There are some things you need to know about the man you were going to marry.”

I lowered myself into the chair beside Derek’s, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me up. Derek wouldn’t look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

My dad pulled out a thick manila folder from his desk drawer and set it down with a heavy thud.

“After what happened at the hospital,” my dad began, “I started noticing things about Derek. Little things that didn’t add up. Whispered phone calls when he thought no one was listening. Text messages he’d delete the second he finished reading them. So… I did some digging.”

“Dad, what are you talking about?” I asked, though part of me already knew I didn’t want to hear the answer.

He opened the folder, and I saw receipts, printed text messages, bank statements, and what looked like surveillance photos.

“Derek checked into the Riverside Hotel on the night of his bachelor party,” my dad said, sliding a receipt across the desk. “He wasn’t at the club when you called him. He was in room 847 with a woman named Jessica. His coworker.”

I felt sick to the core. I looked at Derek, who finally managed to speak up.

“Lily, baby, please, it’s not what you think. I can explain—”

“There’s more,” my dad interrupted. “Derek has been cheating on you for at least six months. Multiple women. I have messages, photos, and hotel records. Everything.”

He spread more papers across the desk like he was dealing cards.

“But that’s not even the worst part,” my dad continued. “Derek took out three separate loans in your name for the wedding. Forged your signature on the applications. Fifteen thousand dollars total. He told his friends you were locked in financially and he’d profit either way, whether the marriage lasted or not.”

That was it. I couldn’t breathe. How could the man I loved the most do this to me?

“No,” I whispered. “No, that’s not possible.”

My dad’s expression softened as he looked at me, but his voice remained steel. “I wish it wasn’t true, sweetheart. But there’s one more thing you need to hear.”

He pressed play on his phone, and Derek’s voice filled the room. It was a recording, clearly from a bar or restaurant, with background noise and laughter.

“I barely even like her, man,” Derek’s voice said, dripping with contempt. “But hey, she’s got savings, and her dad’s got money. Worst case, we divorce, and I take half. Baby or no baby, I’m set either way.”

His friend’s voice laughed. “Dude, that’s cold.”

“It’s smart,” Derek replied. “Besides, I never wanted the kid anyway. The miscarriage was just convenient timing.”

The recording stopped.

I felt something inside me shatter and then immediately hardened into something else entirely. All the grief, all the confusion, all the pain I’d been carrying suddenly crystallized into perfect, blinding clarity.

Derek shot up from his chair, his voice frantic. “Lily, baby, you have to understand, I was drunk, I was joking, your dad is twisting everything—”

My father slammed his fist down on the desk so hard that Derek actually flinched and backed away.

“Sit down,” my dad commanded.

Derek sat.

My dad leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk, his eyes locked on Derek with an intensity I’d never seen before.

“The wedding is canceled,” he said. “The engagement is over. You will return every gift that’s been sent. You will pay back every dollar of those fraudulent loans. And if you try to contact my daughter ever again, I will take this entire file to the police. Fraud, identity theft, coercion. I will make sure every employer in this city knows exactly what kind of man you are.”

Derek’s face crumpled. “You can’t do this! I already paid for half the wedding! I’ll lose everything!”

“You should have thought of that before you abandoned my daughter while she was losing your child.”

Derek looked at me one last time, his expression desperate, searching for any sign that I might defend him or ask my dad to stop.

I met his eyes and felt absolutely nothing.

“Get out,” I said quietly.

He left, stumbling over his own feet as he rushed for the door.

The second it closed behind him, I collapsed into my father’s arms and sobbed, not from heartbreak over losing Derek, but from the overwhelming relief of finally seeing the truth. My dad held me tight, his hand stroking my hair like he had done when I was little.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Months passed. I went to therapy, joined a support group for pregnancy loss, and slowly started rebuilding myself piece by piece. There were hard days when I could barely get out of bed, and there were better days when I remembered what it felt like to laugh.

One morning, I woke up and realized something that made me smile for the first time in weeks.

I missed myself more than I ever missed Derek.

I never looked back. I never wondered what might have been. And every single time I saw my father after that terrible day in his office, I remembered one thing that filled my heart with gratitude.

When I had no strength left to fight, he fought for me.

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