The day was a blur of white lace and forced smiles. My sister, usually a beacon of vibrant energy, was a ghost in her own wedding dress. From the moment I saw her, buttoning up the intricate pearl buttons, something was wrong. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were clouded. Her laugh, usually hearty, was brittle, like shattering glass. Was she okay? Was it just the pressure, the sheer enormity of the day? I tried to tell myself that, to brush away the creeping dread, but a knot tightened in my stomach with every passing moment.
During the ceremony, she stumbled over her vows, a barely perceptible wobble that only I, her closest confidante, would notice. Her hand, when the groom slipped the ring on, trembled violently. He squeezed it, a gesture meant to be reassuring, but it felt… possessive. Or perhaps, desperate. I must be imagining things. But then, she wouldn’t meet my gaze. Not once. Not when I winked at her from the front row, not when I caught her eye during the “you may now kiss the bride.” Her lips barely brushed his, a chaste, almost reluctant peck. My heart ached for her, for the joy that was conspicuously absent.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
The reception was worse. She picked at her food, barely danced, and excused herself to the restroom what felt like a dozen times. Each time she returned, her eyes were redder, her shoulders a little more slumped. The groom, bless his oblivious heart, kept trying to pull her onto the dance floor, kept making jokes about her ‘wedding nerves’. He was a good man, steady and kind. I’d always liked him, believed he’d be good for her. But watching her tonight, I questioned everything. This wasn’t just nerves. This was a scream trapped inside her, desperate to get out.
Then came the speeches. Uncle so-and-so with his embarrassing stories, Auntie with her tearful well wishes. And then, Dad. He cleared his throat, tapping the microphone. A hush fell over the room. Dad, our rock, our steadfast, unwavering father. He started with the usual pleasantries, tales of her childhood, how proud he was. I smiled, a genuine smile this time, relieved to hear a normal voice. Maybe this is what she needs, a reminder of our family, of stability.
But then his voice changed. It hardened. A tremor ran through the room, a collective shift from comfortable laughter to expectant silence. He looked directly at my sister, who had frozen mid-sip of champagne, her face utterly devoid of color.
“My daughter,” he began, his voice losing its warmth, “is a strong woman. She’s made many choices in her life, some good, some… difficult.” My breath caught. What was he doing? “And tonight,” he continued, his gaze sweeping the room, “she is making another difficult choice. One she feels she has to make.” He paused, a dramatic, agonizing beat. “Because what many of you don’t know, what she’s tried to hide, is that she is pregnant.“
A gasp. A collective murmur rippled through the room. My sister dropped her glass. It shattered at her feet, a deafening crack in the silence. Her face was a mask of pure terror. The groom, beside her, looked utterly bewildered, then enraged.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“And,” Dad’s voice boomed, cutting through the rising tide of whispers, “while we are all here to celebrate this union, we need to be honest about why this union is happening. Because he is not the father.“
The whispers turned to shouts. Chaos erupted. I felt cold. Numb. My sister was sobbing now, covering her face with her hands. The groom was red, fists clenched. People were standing, pointing.
“The father,” Dad continued, raising his voice even louder, his eyes fixed on someone in the crowd, not on my sister, but past her, “is someone else. Someone who should have taken responsibility. Someone who betrayed not just my daughter, but this entire family.”
My heart pounded, a frantic drum against my ribs. I looked around, searching. Who? Who could it be? The shame was palpable, suffocating. Who would do this to her? To us?
Then, Dad’s gaze landed on me. Not me, exactly, but the man sitting beside me. The man whose hand I was clutching, white-knuckled, in fear and confusion. My fiancé.
Dad’s eyes, full of a terrifying, raw fury, burned into my fiancé. “The father,” he spat, his voice laced with venom, “is your own fiancé, IT WAS HIM. MY FIANCÉ.“
NO.
MY FIANCÉ.
The room spun. The sounds blurred into a roar. This was a lie. A TERRIBLE, SICK LIE. But the way my fiancé’s face drained of color, the way his hand, still in mine, went limp and cold… The way he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
The world shattered. My sister, my best friend. My fiancé, the man I was going to marry. The perfect life I had envisioned, all of it, a grotesque, twisted lie. He had betrayed us both. He had betrayed ME. And my sister, her strange behavior, the hidden pain… it all made a horrifying, gut-wrenching sense now. She wasn’t just marrying a man she didn’t love. She was living a nightmare, and I, her clueless sister, had been a part of it, blindly planning my own future with the very man who had destroyed hers.
I FELT NOTHING BUT A COLD, EMPTY VOID. THE WHITE OF HER DRESS, THE WHITE OF MY OWN HOPE, ALL STAINED CRIMSON WITH BETRAYAL. IT WASN’T HER WEDDING DAY. IT WAS THE DAY OUR LIVES, ALL THREE OF US, CAME CRASHING DOWN.
