The drive home felt endless, as if the road itself had stretched. My hands trembled on the steering wheel while their words replayed over and over in my mind.
Jealous.
Selfish.
Holding a grudge.
Dramatic.
Making everything about myself.
When I finally stepped into our apartment, Eli was in the kitchen cooking dinner. The air smelled of garlic, herbs, and something comforting. Soft music played from his phone, and he was humming along. He looked up immediately, concern washing over his face the second he saw me.
“How did it go?” he asked gently, setting the spoon aside.
I shook my head, struggling to speak.
“About as badly as I expected,” I said at last.
He dried his hands and pulled me into a steady, grounding hug without saying another word. I melted into his warmth, grateful beyond words for a man who had never once made me feel like my emotions were too much.
“They don’t get it,” I murmured against his chest. “They honestly don’t understand what they did to me—or why it hurts.”
“I know,” he said quietly, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “But you don’t owe them anything. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine.”
I leaned back to look at him.
His jaw tightened, anger flashing across his face.
“They actually said that?”
I nodded, and he shook his head in disbelief.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said firmly. “You’re the least jealous person I know. You’ve supported Amanda through all of this—even after everything she did, even after the way they treated you.”
He was right.
I had supported Amanda every step of the way. I’d liked every engagement photo, written enthusiastic comments, sent congratulatory messages, and listened to my mom gush endlessly about dresses, flowers, and venues—all while forcing myself to smile through the pain.
I had done everything a good sister was supposed to do, even though each gesture felt like swallowing shards of glass. But none of it mattered. In their version of reality, I was the problem. I was the source of drama.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, exhausted but unable to sleep. My mind kept drifting back to my wedding eight months earlier—to the empty chairs, the forced smiles, the hope I’d carried that my family would be there.
I remembered how carefully I’d planned everything. The colors I chose with my mom in mind. The flowers I thought she’d love. The menu filled with my dad’s favorite dishes. I had done everything I could to make them want to be there.
And they had chosen not to come.
I thought about Amanda three weeks before my wedding, when I sent her invitation—cream-colored paper, gold lettering, exactly the style she’d always said she wanted. Inside, I’d included a handwritten note telling her how much it meant to me, how I couldn’t imagine getting married without my little sister beside me.
I pictured her standing next to me as a bridesmaid—maybe even my maid of honor—the way sisters are supposed to stand together.
Instead, she threw the invitation away.
I knew because I had seen it—on the security footage from my parents’ house.
They’d installed cameras after a series of neighborhood break-ins, and I still had access from helping set them up. Weeks after my wedding, desperate for answers, I checked the footage. I told myself there had to be a mistake—lost mail, a misunderstanding, some emergency no one had explained.
What I saw instead made my stomach twist and shattered everything I thought I knew about my family.
Amanda was on the security footage in my parents’ kitchen exactly three weeks before my wedding, turning my carefully chosen invitation over in her hands. She opened it slowly, scanned the details with a faint frown—and then burst into laughter. Not a polite little chuckle, but a full, delighted laugh, like my wedding was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Continue reading…
