My 29-year-old sister didn’t sugarcoat anything. “They’re rewriting the story,” she told me one night at my kitchen table. “They’re acting like you two just drifted apart.”
“He told people we were unhappy for years,” I said.
“Were you?”
“No.”
Six months later, they were planning a lavish wedding.
Of course they were. Gabriella always loved attention.
“They’re rewriting the story.”
She was the type of 27-year-old who was into mood boards and themed cocktails.
She posted wedding countdowns on social media as if theirs was some epic romance.
And yes, I was invited. “You’re still family,” they said.
Gabriella had the nerve to text me that herself.
“I really hope you’ll come,” she wrote. “We want peace.”
I almost threw my phone across the room.
Instead, I replied, “I’ll think about it.”
And yes, I was invited.
I thought about it thoroughly and decided to go, but alone.
The twins stayed home with a babysitter.
I chose a navy dress that fit my body as it was, not as it used to be. I curled my hair.
I walked into that ballroom with my shoulders back.
Gabriella’s closest relatives circled me all evening, but I refused to leave because I didn’t want anyone to see how much the ground beneath me had cracked.
The twins stayed home with a babysitter.
Our family members were praising the bride’s glow, luck, and her “upgrade.”
“She looks radiant,” one cousin said, smiling at me as if I should agree.
“Tyler’s such a catch,” one aunt whispered. “He’ll make her so happy.”
I smiled and nodded, but I shot pleading looks at my sister, who’d arrived earlier, until she swooped in and rescued me from the endless conversations.
Hannah slid beside me with two glasses of champagne. “You’re handling this better than I would,” she said, loud enough for the nosy relatives to hear.
“She looks radiant.”
“I’m not here to handle it,” I smiled. “I’m here to witness it.”
She squeezed my hand. I met her eyes.
Then came the dances.
