Gabby, eight months pregnant and expecting to simply enjoy her sister’s extravagant wedding as a guest, suddenly finds herself assigned a “family responsibility” so outrageous, it pushes her to her emotional limit. As the big day unfolds, she must decide where family obligation ends—and where her self-respect begins.
When people learn I’m nearly nine months along, their reactions are usually a mix of awe and sympathy. “You must be so tired,” they say, as if they can imagine the full weight of carrying a baby.
But pregnancy is nothing compared to being caught in my sister Tara’s gravitational pull.
Tara has always had a knack for making everything revolve around her. Even as kids, she didn’t ask for help—she delegated. And somehow, refusing her always felt like asking for trouble.
I was sitting cross-legged in her living room, hot glue gun at my side, carefully placing fake peonies into centerpiece holders, when she announced it.
“I’m offering free rides for all my guests,” she said, flipping through her wedding planner like she was curating a royal gala. “It’s going to be so elegant.”
I froze. “That sounds… nice, Tara. But didn’t you max out your budget already? That’s why we’re gluing fake flowers right now, isn’t it?”
She barely glanced at me.
“Well, since your husband runs a transportation company, it should be easy. He’s got the cars. It’s basically done.”
I blinked. She was serious. The plan was already made. And I wasn’t asked—I was assigned.
“You haven’t even spoken to Timothy about this,” I said, trying to stay calm.
She waved it off. “You can talk to him. He listens to you.”
“That’s not the point.”
Tara finally looked up, irritated. “It’s not that big a deal. It’s your family’s business. Why not support your sister on the biggest day of her life?”
I slowly stood, the baby kicking in protest. “Wait—do you also expect me to drive?”
“Well, yeah,” she shrugged. “You’re pregnant. You’re not drinking or dancing. Makes sense.”
Something in me cracked.
“I’ll be nearly nine months pregnant, Tara. You want me driving your friends home at midnight?”
“They’re not strangers, Gabby! They’re my friends. Wealthy ones. I want everything to look seamless, classy.”
That was always Tara’s priority—appearances. Image over effort. Elegance over empathy.
I didn’t trust myself to respond. My hands were trembling. I quietly texted Timothy: Can you pick me up, please?
He replied immediately: Already on the way. Bringing tacos.
When he arrived ten minutes later, I stood up—aching, light-headed, and done. Tara barely looked up.
“Oh, and Gabby?” she called after me. “Tell Timothy thanks. I know he’ll come through. That’s what family does.”
In the car, I filled Timothy in. I expected him to get angry.
Instead, he was still. Calm. Focused. He let me finish, then slid his hand onto my thigh and said with a smile, “Don’t worry. We’ll give Tara exactly what she wants—just not how she imagined it.”
The wedding was held at an upscale vineyard Tara rented to project “low-key luxury.” It had chandeliers, imported string musicians, and enough floral arrangements to fill a greenhouse.
I wore a long maternity dress, navy blue, with comfortable flats and shallow breaths. I didn’t feel like a guest. I felt like a prop. The helpful, polished sister—there, but overlooked.
Timothy’s company sent five pristine cars. The drivers, dressed to impress, offered guests top-tier service—professional, polite, and efficient.
Guests were dazzled. Tara was glowing. Everything looked exactly how she dreamed.
Before the ceremony, she hugged me quickly.
“You didn’t let me down, Gabby,” she whispered. “I wasn’t sure you’d come through. Pregnancy fog and all…”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, forcing a smile.
The ceremony was Pinterest-perfect. People cried on cue. My mom sobbed into her tissues. The cameras flashed like fireworks.
The reception followed—flashy, crowded, and expensive. I ate dessert with our baby happily stretching beneath my ribs.
And then, the cars began running.
But there was one detail Tara never accounted for: payment.
Our drivers, trained and courteous, asked each guest at drop-off:
“That’ll be $50. The bride mentioned her guests were sophisticated enough to contribute. Cash or card?”
Some guests laughed, thinking it was a gag. Others looked confused. A few were downright offended.
“But Tara said it was free!” one woman gasped.
“We were instructed otherwise,” the drivers would say smoothly. “Sorry for the confusion.”
By midnight, Tara’s phone was blowing up. Guests were texting, calling, and confronting her at the bar.
But she was too busy posing in her second wedding dress to notice the chaos behind her.
Until later.
As the last guests left and the fairy lights dimmed, she stormed toward me, bouquet crushed in her hand.
“Gabby,” she hissed. “What the hell is happening?”
“What do you mean?” I replied, calmly.
“People are being charged! You told me Timothy would handle it!”
“He did,” I said. “Like a business professional.”
Her face went pale. “I printed that it was complimentary, Gabby! Don’t you understand what that means?”
“I do. You printed it—without ever asking us.”
Her voice cracked. “Where’s the money then?”
“In the business account. Just like with every other paying client.”
She gasped. “You’re my sister! This was your duty!”
Timothy appeared beside me, wrapping a steady hand around my back.
“Your guests are rich, Tara,” I said. “We figured they were classy enough to tip.”
She stared at me, stunned. I turned away, supported by the only loyalty that truly mattered.
She left me a voicemail the next day—rage mixed with tears. Two days later: a text.
“You humiliated me, Gabrielle. I’ll never forgive you.”
I let the message sit.
Now, three days later, I’m sitting in the car after my OB-GYN appointment. Everything’s looking perfect. Our baby is healthy, head down, and on track.
Timothy glances at me. “Want to celebrate with some ice cream?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
At our favorite quiet shop, we ordered cones and found a shady bench. He helped me like I was made of glass. We sat, side by side, cones melting slightly in the summer air.
“I still can’t believe your sister tried to turn your third trimester into a midnight Uber shift,” he said.
“She really thought she was offering me an honor,” I laughed. “A sober chauffeur for her rich, drunk guests.”
He grinned. “Next time she asks for a favor, we’ll tell her we’re booked—with diapers and nap schedules.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m actually… okay. I’m glad it happened before the baby.”
Timothy nodded. “She’ll get over it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she won’t. But either way, it’s not my problem.”
“No regrets?” he asked.
I smiled. “For once, none. Boundaries don’t feel empowering at first. They feel like betrayal. Like you’re abandoning someone who convinced you that love equals sacrifice.”
“But eventually, they feel like breathing. Like you can finally exhale.”
I won’t orbit anyone else anymore—not even family.
This baby? They’ll grow up with a mom who knows the difference between giving and giving up.
Let Tara have her drama. I’ve got something better waiting.
Mom. And Dad.