I never imagined heartbreak could come dressed in silk and tucked between flutes of champagne—but there I was, sitting in the third row at my younger sister’s wedding, wearing a thrifted dress and a smile I had to force.
My son, Luca, was next to me in the little suit I’d managed to buy after stretching two paychecks. He swung his legs under the table, his face lit up, blissfully unaware of what was about to unfold.
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I had come that day with a quiet hope—perhaps naïve—for a sense of peace. Maybe even a bit of belonging.
What I got instead was a moment that exposed everything—and, in doing so, helped me reclaim my voice.
Vivienne looked stunning—undeniably so. She moved through the ceremony like she’d stepped off the pages of a bridal magazine. White roses, gold flatware, the soft hum of a string quartet—it was all carefully curated to inspire awe.
And Vivienne had always been admired. Especially by our mother, Judith.
I was the older one, yet never the one people celebrated. While Vivienne gathered compliments, I collected quiet critiques and constant comparisons. She was the shining star. I was the cautionary tale.
Still, I showed up.
I smiled. I clapped. I answered politely when guests asked, “You’re the older one? You don’t look like you have an eight-year-old!”
They meant it as a compliment. But it stung all the same.