The last thing I saw before I walked into my sister’s $85,000 wedding was the little American-flag magnet on my parents’ fridge, pinning the seating chart like it was a coupon for paper towels. Sinatra drifted from Mom’s kitchen radio. A pitcher of iced tea sweated onto a coaster with a bald eagle on it.
And right there—under SERENA (BRIDE) in bold caps—was my name in smaller print, as if it had been added as an afterthought: MILA, Row 15, Seat 23. Mom didn’t even glance up when she said it. “They had to squeeze you in, honey.
It’s a full guest list.”
Seat 299 out of 300. I smoothed my dress, looked at my reflection in the microwave door, and told myself the same lie I’d been telling for twenty-nine years: It’s fine. I’m fine.
I wasn’t there to be celebrated. I was there to not make trouble. That was the bargain I made with myself as I followed my parents out to the car.
My name is Mila West. I’m 29 years old, and I grew up in a house where love came with a ranking system. Serena was the pretty one.
I was the other one. If that sounds dramatic, I get it. People hear that and assume I’m exaggerating, that maybe I’m oversensitive, that maybe my parents “just didn’t know how to show affection.” But there’s a difference between being awkward and being deliberate.
My parents didn’t just forget my milestones. They invested in my sister like she was a retirement plan. And I don’t mean emotionally.
I mean financially. They spent $85,000 on Serena’s wedding. The dress alone cost $15,000.
They paid for a string quartet, a champagne fountain, and a floral installation that looked like a cloud exploded into roses. When I mentioned that Daniel and I were also planning to get married, my mother looked at me like I’d told a joke. “Honey,” she said, and she actually patted my hand the way you comfort a child, “do you really think anyone would come?”
I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do.
Then she said the part that stuck like a thorn. “Serena is the pretty one,” Mom added, like she was stating the weather. “We have to invest wisely.”
And my father—Richard—stared at his plate like mashed potatoes held the secrets of the universe.
That’s where my story starts, but it doesn’t end there. Because on my sister’s big day, sitting silently in the back row, I watched the best man stand up for his speech. And then I watched him reveal what my sister had been doing with the groom’s brother.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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