At eight months pregnant, Gabby thought she’d simply be a guest at her sister Tara’s extravagant wedding. Instead, she was blindsided by a “family favor” that pushed her beyond exhaustion—and straight to a breaking point.
When people hear I’m eight months pregnant, their first reaction is usually some version of, “You must be so tired.” And yes, growing a human is tiring. But it’s not just the baby that’s wearing me down—it’s my sister.
Tara has always had a gravitational pull. Even as kids, she didn’t ask for help—she assigned it. Saying no to her was like inviting chaos.
So when I found myself on the floor of her living room, painstakingly assembling cheap fake peonies because she’d already blown her floral budget, I wasn’t surprised she was still trying to spin her dream wedding. What did surprise me was what came next.
“I’m announcing free luxury transportation for the guests,” she said, nonchalantly. “And since Timothy owns a car service, it’ll be easy. You guys can handle it.”
My brain stalled. Was she serious?
“You didn’t even ask us,” I said, trying to stay calm.
“Just talk to him. He listens to you,” she waved off.
And then came the kicker.
“You’ll be the sober driver, obviously. You won’t be dancing anyway.”
That’s when it hit me. She wasn’t asking—she had decided. And I was just supposed to go along with it. Because I was family. Because I was her family.
By the time Timothy picked me up, I was shaking—part from hormones, part from fury. I told him everything.
He didn’t get mad. Instead, he smiled slowly and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll give her what she wants… just not how she expects.”
The big day arrived—lavish, dramatic, and exhausting. I wore a navy maternity dress and tried to smile through the constant rib kicks. Tara’s fantasy was in full swing, complete with chandeliers and a string quartet.
Timothy’s company showed up on time with gleaming cars and professional drivers. The guests were impressed. Tara was thrilled.
And then, the twist.
Each time a guest arrived at their destination, they were greeted with polite professionalism and a simple statement:
“That’ll be $50. Cash or card is fine.”
Cue confusion. Cue pearl-clutching. Cue chaos.
By the time Tara realized what was happening, the night was nearly over. Her guests had been calling and complaining for hours, but she’d been too busy posing for photos in her second gown to notice the flames.
She found me just as the lights were dimming.
“You embarrassed me,” she snapped. “You told me Timothy would take care of it.”
“He did,” I replied. “Like a professional.”
“But I said it was complimentary!”
“Without checking with us.”
She demanded the money. I told her it went to the business—just like it would with any other client.
She yelled about family duty.
But I was done. Timothy stood next to me, steady and calm. I walked away.
A few days later, Tara sent a final message. A text dripping with guilt and blame. I didn’t answer.
Instead, I sat in the car after a doctor’s appointment, resting my hand on my belly, eating sour candy while Timothy drove us to get ice cream.
“She really thought she was being generous,” I laughed. “She offered me the privilege of driving her drunk guests around. At midnight. Nine months pregnant.”
We laughed. We ordered ice cream. And we breathed.
For the first time, I felt okay. Not just okay—I felt free. Not because Tara was angry. But because I had finally stopped letting her define what love or loyalty meant.
Setting a boundary didn’t feel empowering at first—it felt like betrayal. But now? It feels like oxygen. Like taking the first full breath after holding it in for too long.
My baby deserves that version of me—the one who knows the difference between giving and losing herself.
Tara can keep her drama.
We’ve got better titles now: Mom and Dad.