My Sister Showed Me Up at Her WeddingSo I Gave Her a Taste of Her Own Medicine
Last month, my sister, Emily Whitmore, tied the knot in a lavish ceremony in the Cotswolds. I wasnt just a bridesmaidI spent eight months knee-deep in wedding chaos, running between florists in Bristol, haggling with caterers in Bath, and even covering a few last-minute deposits when Emilys budget went pear-shaped. Honestly? Seeing her happy was worth every stressful RSVP chase and every late-night spreadsheet session.
But then came the reception. During her thank-you speech, she gushed over her new husband, Oliver, his posh parents from Surrey, their mates from unieven her cousin Sophie, whod popped in once to arrange napkins. My name? Nowhere to be heard. I forced a laugh, telling myself shed just got carried away. Still, it stung like a paper cut.
Later, Oliver teased, Honestly, Lily here was our unpaid wedding planner! The room tittered, and Emily chimed in with, Well, what else are sisters for? Besides, shes singleits not like she had anything better to do! The laughter that followed might as well have been a custard pie to the face. I plastered on a smile, but inside? Oof.
Weeks later, still smarting, I arrived at their first big family dinner in Oxfordshire clutching a neatly wrapped box. Open it! I beamed. A little housewarming surprise. She ripped off the paperonly to find an artfully arranged shadow box filled with every invoice, to-do list, and receipt from the wedding, elegantly framed with lace from her own dress. A little plaque at the bottom read: *Courtesy of the one who made it all possible.*
Cue the crickets. Then a few awkward chuckles. Thought Id save you the trouble of forgetting me twice, I quipped. The room couldve powered a neutron bomb with the tension.
Later, my phone blew up. Mum called me a drama queen. Aunt Margaret huffed about family dignity. Emily? A novel-length text about how Id humiliated her in front of the in-laws. I didnt engage. Maybe Id gone nuclearbut after being treated like an afterthought, didnt I deserve a mic drop?
The silent treatment dragged on. No calls, no texts, even a mysterious unfollowing on Instagram. Then Mum rang: Love, just apologise. Shes fuming.
*Shes* fuming? I spluttered. I was her glorified errand girl!
Mum sighed. Sometimes being right isnt worth the row.
Fine. One Saturday, I turned up unannounced at Emilys cottage. She blinked at me like Id brought bad weather. What do you want?
To talk. Properly.
We sat at her kitchen table, the air thicker than clotted cream. I didnt come to scrap, I said. But you made me feel invisible. Like my life was just your admin backlog.
She fiddled with her tea. I didnt mean to hurt you. I just didnt want people thinking I couldnt handle my own wedding.
You *didnt* handle it, I pointed out. I did. And you laughed.
Her eyes welled up. That shadow box was brutal. But when I actually *looked* at it bloody hell, Lily. You did *everything*.
I shrugged. I didnt want a standing ovation. Just to matter.
She snorted. Well, mission accomplished.
We hugged, sniffling into each others shoulders like melodramatic royals.
The following weekend, she hosted a do. Before the roast, she stood up, clutching a little box. Right. Time to thank someone I erm *overlooked*. She handed it to mea dainty gold bracelet with a charm: *The one who made it all possible.*
Everyone clapped. Even Olivers stuffy aunt from Cheltenham dabbed her eyes.
Later, elbows-deep in washing-up, Emily bumped my hip. Still my unpaid planner, though.
I grinned. Next time, I charge by the hour.
Next time? She laughed. Not a chance.
And just like that, we were us again. Not perfectjust sisters. And honestly? That was better than any fancy speech.
