Eight months pregnant, Gabby expects to be a guest at her sister’s lavish wedding. Instead, she’s handed an outrageous “family duty” that pushes her to her limit. As the big day unfolds, Gabby must decide where loyalty ends and self-respect begins.
When I tell people I’m eight months pregnant, they gasp, soften their faces, and say I must be “exhausted.”
They don’t know the half of it. I love feeling my baby kick, but the extra weight is aging my joints. Yet, pregnancy’s burden is nothing compared to orbiting my sister, Tara.
Tara’s always made people revolve around her. Even as kids, she didn’t ask for help—she assigned it. Saying no invited a storm, so you’d agree, not out of desire but to avoid her wrath.
I was sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, arranging fake peonies on centerpiece bases, when she dropped her bombshell.
“I’m announcing free transportation for all my wedding guests,” she said, smoothing her planner with manicured nails. “To make it chic, Gabby.”
My fingers froze, glue gun warm beside me, the faint smell of burnt plastic in the air. I looked up.
“Okay, Tara,” I said slowly. “But how? You said you blew your budget on food. That’s why we’re using fake flowers.”
She didn’t look up from her couch perch.
“Well, Gabrielle,” she said, as if it were obvious, “your husband’s transportation business has cars. It’s easy for him. Child’s play.”
I stared, unsure if I’d misheard. Her tone was too casual, like this was decided long ago without me.
“You haven’t talked to Timothy,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “He didn’t mention anything.”
“You can talk to him, Gabby,” she waved dismissively. “He listens to you.”
“That’s not the point.”
Tara looked up, annoyed, as if I were the problem.
“It’s not a big deal, Gabby. It’s your family’s business. You have cars and drivers—why not help your sister on her big day?”
I pushed myself up, hands on the carpet, baby kicking in protest at the movement.
“You expect me to drive, Tara?” I asked, already knowing her answer.
“You’re pregnant, so you’ll be the ‘sober’ one,” she said. “You won’t be dancing all night anyway.”
My chest tightened, not from the baby but from a suffocating pressure. I couldn’t breathe.
“Tara, I’ll be almost nine months pregnant on your wedding day. You want me driving drunk strangers at midnight?”
“They’re not strangers!” she snapped, as if that fixed it. “They’re my friends. Rich friends. I want it to look classic, glamorous.”
There it was—her obsession with appearances.
For Tara, it was always about the image, not the cost or feelings. She chased a veneer of sophistication to mask her transactional nature.
I didn’t reply. My heart raced, hands trembling despite my efforts to stay calm. I texted Timothy.
“Can you pick me up? Please?”
He replied instantly: “On my way, love. Got tacos for you.”
Ten minutes later, he arrived. I stood, back aching from the floor, dizzy from the effort. Tara barely glanced up from her laptop.
“Oh, Gabby?” she called as I reached the door. “Tell Timothy thanks in advance. I know he’ll come through. That’s what family does.”
In the car, I spilled everything to Timothy over tacos. I expected anger, maybe a sharp exhale.
Instead, he was calm, the kind of quiet that comes with a decision already made.
“She printed the programs,” I said. “They say, ‘Complimentary luxury transportation by the bride’s sister and brother-in-law, courtesy of their company.’”
He drove silently, then slid his hand onto my thigh with a small smile.
“Don’t stress, Gabby. We’ll give Tara what she wants… just not how she expects.”
The wedding was Saturday evening at an overpriced upstate vineyard—Tara’s “understated elegance,” complete with fifteen chandeliers and a string quartet flown in.
It screamed money before you even stepped out of the car.
I wore a navy maternity dress and flats for comfort, taking shallow breaths to ease the pressure on my ribs. I was supposed to be a guest but felt like a prop: The Dutiful Sister, polished but invisible.
Timothy’s company sent five gleaming cars, drivers in tailored uniforms exuding calm authority. Guests were impressed, exactly as Tara wanted.
Before the ceremony, Tara hugged me briefly, her arms cool. “You didn’t let me down, Gabby!” she whispered. “I wasn’t sure you would, with pregnancy brain.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, Tara,” I said, forcing a smile.
The ceremony was flawless under a lavish flower arch. People cried on cue, Mom included. Cameras clicked incessantly.
The reception was loud, with pricey linen napkins. The desserts were divine, and the baby and I savored them.
But the real moment came with the rides. Timothy ensured neither of us drove. Our drivers handled everything.
Each guest was treated like royalty—doors opened, names confirmed, routes clarified. But at their destination, drivers said, “That’ll be $50. The bride said her guests are classy enough to pay. Cash or card.”
Some laughed, thinking it was a joke. Others were confused. One woman clutched her pearls. “Tara said it was free! I could’ve gotten a ride from someone else.”
Drivers smiled. “We were told otherwise. Sorry for the mix-up.”
By midnight, Tara’s phone was chaos. Guests texted, called, even confronted her at the bar, demanding why they were charged. She was too busy posing in her dramatic satin gown to notice the brewing storm.
At the night’s end, with guests gone and fairy lights dimming, Tara found me.
“Gabby,” she hissed, bouquet crushed, makeup smudged. “What the hell is going on?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, tilting my head innocently.
“Everyone’s being charged! You said Timothy would handle it!”
“He did,” I said. “Like a professional charging for a service.”
“You embarrassed me!” she snapped. “I printed it was complimentary, Gabby! Don’t you get what that means?”
“Yes, Tara,” I said. “You printed it. Without asking us.”
She gripped her bouquet, jaw twitching, ready to hurl it.
“Where’s the money, Gabby?” she demanded.
“In the business,” I said. “Like with any client.”
“You’re my sister!” she shrieked. “It’s your family duty!”
Timothy’s hand slid around my back, steadying me. I’ve got you, babe.
“Your rich friends, Tara,” I said. “I thought they’d be classy enough to pay.”
She opened her mouth, speechless. I walked away, Timothy’s arm firm.
Tara called the next day. I didn’t answer. Her voicemail was rage and tears.
Two days later, she texted: “You ruined my big day, Gabrielle. I’ll never forgive you.”
I stared at the screen, thumb over delete, then set the phone down.
Three days later, in the car after my OB-GYN visit, legs swollen, sour candy on my belly, I felt at peace. The doctor said the baby was perfect, head down, heartbeat strong, on track for a natural birth.
“Still keeping the gender a surprise?” she asked.
“We are,” Timothy grinned. “Best kind of surprise.”
“Love that,” she smiled.
A few weeks until we’d meet our little one.
“Ice cream?” Timothy asked, glancing over.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
He turned toward our favorite family-owned shop with soft waffle cones.
“I can’t believe Tara tried to make your third trimester an Uber shift,” he said.
“She thought she was generous,” I laughed. “Offering me the ‘honor’ of driving drunk strangers at midnight on swollen feet.”
“Next time she wants a favor,” he said, “we’re booked with naps and feedings.”
At the shop, he helped me out like I was fragile. We got double scoops—mint chip for him, strawberry cheesecake for me—and sat on a shady bench.
“This is perfect,” I sighed, taking a bite.
“You okay?” Timothy asked, eyes soft.
“I think so.”
“We did the right thing,” he said, resting his head on my shoulder.
“I know.”
“She’ll get over it,” he added.
“Or she won’t, Tim. But that’s fine. We all grow up sometime.”
“You don’t sound too upset,” he smiled.
I smiled back, feeling deep relief.
“For the first time in forever, I’m not. I’m glad it happened before the baby. No room for selfish people once they arrive.”
Boundaries don’t feel empowering at first. They feel like guilt, like betraying someone who’s taught you love means sacrifice.
But eventually, they’re like air—breathing freely after holding it in too long.
I was done orbiting someone who never asked if I wanted to be pulled in.
Our baby deserves a mother who knows the difference between loving others and losing herself.
Tara can keep her tantrums and her need to control. Timothy and I have better titles waiting: Mom and Dad.
