She hung up before I could say goodbye.
I stared at my phone at the abrupt end to our conversation and felt something familiar settle in my chest. It wasn’t quite sadness, wasn’t quite anger. It was the dull ache of being perpetually secondary.
The weeks leading up to the wedding passed in a blur of work and preparation. I bought a new dress, a soft blue that complimented my complexion without being too attention-grabbing. I arranged time off from the bakery, much to my boss’s dismay, since June was our busiest season.
I should have known something was wrong when Victoria didn’t ask me to be a bridesmaid.
She had five bridesmaids, I learned from her social media posts. College friends, work friends, even our cousin Jessica, who she’d barely spoken to in years. But not me.
“The wedding party is already set,” she explained when I finally worked up the courage to ask. “You understand, right? These are people I see regularly.”
I understood perfectly. I understood that I’d never be part of her inner circle. That our shared childhood meant nothing compared to her current social standing.
The wedding was scheduled for a Saturday in late June at an upscale resort outside Denver. I drove there alone, my dress hanging carefully in the back seat, a small gift wrapped in silver paper on the passenger seat. I’d spent weeks deciding what to give them, finally settling on a set of handcrafted ceramic bowls from a local artist. Something thoughtful, something that showed I cared.
The resort was stunning. Manicured lawns stretched toward mountain views, and the ceremony site overlooked a pristine lake. White chairs were arranged in perfect rows, and flowers seemed to bloom from every available surface. Victoria had spared no expense, which meant our mother had spared no expense. This was the wedding she’d always dreamed of, the perfect culmination of her perfect daughter’s perfect life.
I arrived two hours early, hoping to find Victoria and offer my help, or at least my support. Instead, I found chaos.
The bridal suite was filled with laughing women in matching robes, champagne glasses in hand, while a photographer captured every moment. I knocked softly on the open door.
Victoria glanced up from her makeup chair, her eyes meeting mine for just a second before sliding away.
“Elizabeth, you’re here early.”
“I thought maybe I could help with something.”
“Everything’s under control. The wedding planner has it all handled. Why don’t you go find your seat? The ceremony starts soon.”
One of the bridesmaids, a blonde woman I didn’t recognize, giggled and whispered something to the woman next to her. They both looked at me and smiled in that way people do when they’re being polite but really wish you’d leave.
I backed out of the room, my face burning. I shouldn’t have come early. I shouldn’t have assumed I’d be welcome in that inner sanctum of pre-wedding preparations.
The ceremony site was still being prepared when I made my way outside. Staff members rushed around with last-minute adjustments, perfecting what was already perfect. I wandered to the area where guest seating had been arranged, looking for my name card.
Row after row of chairs stretched before me, each row marked with small numbered signs. The front rows were clearly reserved for immediate family and VIPs. I expected to find my name somewhere in the second or third row, close enough to show I mattered, far enough to acknowledge I wasn’t part of Victoria’s daily life.
I found my name card in the back row. The very last row, partially hidden behind a decorative pillar that supported the ceremony arbor. From that seat, I’d have a blocked view of the ceremony, unable to see my sister’s face as she said her vows.
I stood there holding that little card with my name printed in elegant script, and something inside me cracked.
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