I raised my sister after our parents died, so when she banned me from her wedding, I thought she was just being selfish. Then I followed her one night and saw her fiancé’s face. By the wedding morning, I had made a few quiet changes neither of them expected.
My sister called while I was hemming her veil and told me not to come to her wedding.
“He’s embarrassed, Margot,” Christine said. “My fiancé doesn’t want you there.”
I looked at the white lace in my lap. “I raised you, Chris. Since when does your fiancé get to be embarrassed by me before he even meets me? And I’ve been trying to meet him for ages now.”
“Please don’t make this about you.”
Thirty minutes later, my own fiancé, Daniel, texted me.
“Stuck at work, hon. Don’t wait up. Love you.”
***
That night, I followed Christine to a little Italian restaurant downtown. I needed to meet the man she was going to marry.
My sister was wearing the green dress I’d bought her for her engagement party.
Then Daniel stepped out of a black car, touched her lower back, and kissed her like he’d never belonged to me at all.
I watched them walk in. Daniel smiled at the waiter, sat down, and picked up his phone.
My phone buzzed in my lap.
“Miss you.”
I stared at his message until the words blurred. I typed, “I can see you.”
Then I deleted it.
Then I typed, “See you later. Drive safe.”
Because Daniel thought I was still blind to him and my sister, and for one more night, I needed him to keep thinking that.
I’d spent most of my adult life being practical.
That’s what happens when your parents die in a car crash when you are nineteen and your little sister is eleven. Other girls my age picked dorm decor. I learned about cheap groceries, school forms, and how to make our mother’s vegetable stew.
Christine used to crawl into my bed at night, shaking, and whisper, “Don’t leave me too.”
So I didn’t.
I missed college orientation, and then I missed college. I worked at a dental office, did billing from home, packed lunches, paid for braces, and sat through every school play, even when she was a tree.
By the time she turned twenty-six, I thought we’d survived the worst of it.
Then she got engaged and refused to tell me his name.
“He’s private,” she said over coffee one Saturday.
“Private is fine,” I replied. “But being invisible is weird.”
Christine rolled her eyes. “Margot.”
What happened next changed everything… continues on the next page.
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