Eight months pregnant, Gabby believed she was going to her sister’s extravagant wedding as an honored guest. Instead, she was blindsided with an unreasonable “family obligation” that pushed her to her limit. On the big day, she had to decide where loyalty stopped and self-respect began.
When people hear I’m eight months along, they usually react with a sympathetic gasp and a soft smile, followed by something like, “You must be so tired.”
They have no idea. Sure, feeling my baby kick is beautiful, but the extra weight feels like it’s aging my knees by a decade. And while pregnancy comes with its own heaviness, it’s nothing compared to the gravitational pull of my sister, Tara.
Tara has always had a way of making people revolve around her. Even when we were little, she never asked for help—she assigned it. And somehow, you’d end up agreeing, not because you wanted to, but because saying no felt like inviting a hurricane into your life.
I was sitting cross-legged on her living room carpet, arranging fake peonies on centerpiece bases, when she dropped her “announcement.”
“I want to surprise my guests with free transportation for the wedding,” she said, running her manicured fingers down the pages of her wedding planner. “You know, Gabby? To make it look elegant and classy.”
I froze mid-action. The warm glue gun next to me gave off that faint burnt plastic smell. I looked up at her slowly.
“Okay… that’s nice, Tara,” I said cautiously. “But how are you going to pull that off? You told me you blew through the budget on food. That’s literally why we’re working with fake flowers right now.”
Without glancing up, she replied matter-of-factly, “Well, Gabrielle, your husband owns a transportation company. He has cars and drivers. It’ll be easy. Barely any effort.”
I stared, wondering if I’d misheard. But the casual tone told me she’d decided this long before telling me, and I was just the last to find out.
“You haven’t even talked to Timothy about this,” I said evenly, trying to keep the heat out of my voice. “He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”
“You can talk to him,” she waved dismissively. “He listens to you.”
“That’s not the point, Tara.”
Now she finally looked up, irritation flickering in her eyes—as if I was the one creating a problem.
“It’s not a big deal. It’s your family’s business. You have cars and drivers—why wouldn’t you help your sister on her big day?”
I braced my palms against the floor and pushed myself up, my belly shifting uncomfortably as the baby kicked.
“And you expect me to be one of the drivers?” I asked, already knowing her answer.
“Well, you’re pregnant, so you’ll be the sober one,” she said. “It’s not like you’ll be dancing all night.”
The pressure in my chest wasn’t from the baby—it was from trying to keep my temper in check.
“Tara, I’ll be almost nine months along on your wedding day. You want me to drive drunk guests around at midnight?”
“They’re not strangers—they’re my friends. My rich friends. And you know what that means… everything has to be glamorous.”
There it was—her obsession with appearances. For Tara, it was always about the image, not the reality.
I didn’t reply. My hands were shaking. I grabbed my phone and texted Timothy: Can you pick me up? Please.
He answered immediately: On my way. Bringing tacos.
When he arrived minutes later, I stood up without saying goodbye. Tara barely looked up from her laptop.
“Oh, and Gabby?” she called out. “Tell Timothy thanks in advance. I know he’ll come through. That’s what family does.”
In the car, between bites of tacos, I told Timothy everything—down to the fact that Tara had already printed the wedding programs announcing, “Complimentary luxury transportation courtesy of the bride’s sister and brother-in-law.”
Timothy stayed quiet, but his hand found my leg, steady and sure. “Don’t worry. We’ll give her exactly what she asked for—just not the way she pictured it.”
The wedding took place at an over-the-top vineyard upstate—Tara’s version of “understated elegance,” complete with chandeliers and a string quartet flown in from another state.
I wore a long navy maternity dress and flats, doing my best to breathe without crushing my ribs. I looked like a guest, but I didn’t feel like one.
Timothy’s company sent five polished cars with uniformed drivers that night. Guests were impressed. Tara beamed.
Before the ceremony, she hugged me lightly and whispered, “I’m glad you came through. I wasn’t sure you would. Pregnancy brain and all.”
The ceremony was picture-perfect. The reception was loud, expensive, and delicious. I stayed seated most of the night, nibbling desserts with the baby happily along for the ride.
Then the rides began.
Timothy had already decided—neither of us would drive. Instead, the chauffeurs handled everything. Guests were escorted into the cars like VIPs, and once they arrived at their destinations, the drivers smiled and said:
“That’ll be $50. The bride mentioned her guests were classy enough to contribute. Cash or card?”
Some laughed, assuming it was a joke. Others looked confused or annoyed. By midnight, Tara’s phone was blowing up with complaints. She was too busy posing in her second gown to notice at first.
When she finally cornered me, bouquet wilted and makeup smudged, she hissed, “What’s going on? Everyone’s being charged! You told me Timothy would take care of it!”
“He did,” I said calmly. “Professionally. By charging for the service.”
“You humiliated me! I said it was complimentary!”
“Yes, you printed it—without asking us.”
She demanded to know where the money was. I told her it went into the business, like it would for any paying client.
“You’re my sister! This was your family duty!”
Timothy’s arm slid around me protectively. “But your rich friends can afford it, Tara,” I said, before walking away.
She called the next day, leaving a furious, tearful voicemail. Two days later, she texted: You embarrassed me on the biggest day of my life. I’ll never forgive you.
I didn’t reply.
Three days later, Timothy and I left my OB appointment with good news—the baby was healthy, head down, and right on schedule.
“Want ice cream?” he asked.
At our favorite little shop, we sat on a shady bench with our cones, laughing about Tara’s attempt to turn my third trimester into a midnight Uber shift.
“The next time she asks for a favor,” Timothy smirked, “we’ll tell her we’re booked with nap time.”
For the first time in years, I felt truly okay. Boundaries don’t feel powerful at first—they feel guilty, heavy. But eventually, they feel like air.
I was done revolving around someone who never cared if I wanted to be in her orbit.
This baby deserves a mother who knows the difference between loving someone and losing herself.
Tara could keep her tantrums. I had better titles ahead: Mom and Dad.