I’ve learned that when people find out you’re eight months pregnant, they almost always react the same way. There’s a sharp intake of breath, a sympathetic tilt of the head, and then some version of, “You must be so tired.”
They say it with genuine concern, and they’re not wrong. Pregnancy has a way of making your bones feel older than they are. My hips ached constantly, my ankles looked like they belonged to someone else, and sleeping through the night had become a distant memory. Every movement took planning. Every outing required a mental calculation of how long I could stand, sit, or walk before my body rebelled.
But as uncomfortable as pregnancy was, it paled in comparison to the emotional exhaustion of being my sister’s sister.
My name is Gabriella, though everyone calls me Gabi, and my older sister Marissa has spent most of her life acting like gravity itself bent in her direction. People didn’t just love her—they revolved around her. Her wants became expectations. Her expectations became obligations. And her obligations somehow always landed on someone else’s shoulders.
Growing up, she never asked for help. She assigned it.
And if you hesitated—if you so much as paused—she would give you that look. The one who said refusing her wasn’t just inconvenient, but a betrayal. The family didn’t say no to Marissa. Family showed up, bent over backward, and smiled while doing it.
So when I found myself sitting cross-legged on her living room floor one afternoon, eight months pregnant and carefully gluing artificial peonies onto cheap plastic bases, I should have known something was coming.
The smell of hot glue hung in the air, sharp and faintly chemical. My lower back screamed every time I leaned forward, but I kept going anyway, because Marissa had decided that faux flowers were “vintage chic” after realizing she’d blown most of her budget on imported linens and a string quartet.
She sat on the couch nearby, scrolling through her wedding planner on a tablet, legs crossed, posture flawless. She looked effortlessly serene—exactly how she wanted to look on her wedding day.
Without looking up, she said, “I’ve decided to offer complimentary transportation for all my guests.”
My fingers froze mid-motion. I blinked.
“Complimentary… transportation?” I repeated slowly.
“Yes,” she said, still scrolling. “I think it elevates the whole experience. It feels very elegant. Very… curated.”
I glanced around her living room—at the glue sticks, the half-assembled centerpieces, the obvious corners being cut.
“That sounds nice,” I said carefully. “But how are you planning to do that? I thought you were already over budget.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “That’s where you come in.”
I felt a prickle of unease crawl up my spine. “Me?”
She finally looked up then, smiling like this was the most obvious solution in the world.
“Well, Elliot owns a transportation company, doesn’t he?” she said. “With several cars and drivers. So it’ll be easy. Practically nothing.”
My stomach dropped.
“You didn’t talk to Elliot about this,” I said, keeping my voice steady through sheer willpower.
“You can,” she replied breezily. “He listens to you.”
“That’s not the point,” I said.
Her smile tightened. “You’re making this bigger than it needs to be, Gabi. It’s family. You help your family. Besides, it’s great exposure for his business.”
Exposure. The word landed like an insult.
“And what exactly do you expect me to do?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, glancing pointedly at my stomach, “you won’t be drinking. So you can drive. You’ll be useful.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The baby shifted inside me, a sharp kick against my ribs, as if reacting to the tension flooding my body.
“You want me,” I said slowly, “to spend your wedding night driving intoxicated guests around… while I’m nearly nine months pregnant?”
“They’re not intoxicated,” she snapped. “And they’re not strangers. They’re my friends.”
That was worse, somehow.
“They’ll be drinking,” I said. “Late. It’ll be midnight or later.”
Marissa sighed like I was being unreasonable. “You’re always so dramatic. I just want everything to look seamless. Classy. My guests expect that.”
There it was. The image. The performance.
I felt something tighten in my chest—not fear, not anger, but clarity. The kind that comes right before a line is crossed.
“I need to go,” I said quietly.
She didn’t stop me as I struggled to my feet. My back protested, dizziness washed over me, and I had to pause to steady myself.
As I reached for my phone, I sent Elliot a simple text:
Can you come get me? Please.
His response came almost immediately.
On my way. Got tacos too.
When he arrived, I didn’t bother saying goodbye. Marissa didn’t look up.
“Oh,” she called as I reached the door, “tell Elliot thanks in advance. I knew I could count on him.”
In the car, I told him everything. About the transportation. About being expected to drive. About the printed programs that already advertised “complimentary luxury service provided by the bride’s sister and brother-in-law.”
I waited for him to get angry.
Instead, he grew very quiet.
Then he smiled.
“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “We’ll give her exactly what she asked for.”
The wedding took place at an extravagant vineyard an hour outside the city. Chandeliers hung from tented ceilings. White roses climbed over arches. Everything gleamed with money.
I wore a navy maternity dress and flats, my feet swollen and sore. I looked like a guest. I felt like staff.
Elliot’s company sent five immaculate vehicles, each with a professional driver in uniform. The guests were impressed. Marissa was thrilled.
She hugged me briefly before the ceremony. “You didn’t disappoint me,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come through.”
The ceremony was flawless. The reception was lavish. And when the rides began, everything unfolded exactly as planned.
Each guest was escorted to a car. Names were confirmed. Doors opened.
And at the destination, each driver said politely,
“That will be fifty dollars. Cash or card.”
Confusion spread like wildfire.
By midnight, Marissa was furious.
She found me near the end of the night, bouquet crushed in her fist, makeup smudged.
“What did you do?” she hissed.
“We charged for services rendered,” I replied.
“You humiliated me!” she cried.
“You used us without asking,” I said calmly.
“You’re my sister!”
“And I’m not your employee.”
The next day, she left a voicemail full of tears and rage. Then a text.
I’ll never forgive you.
Three days later, I sat in the passenger seat after my OB appointment, sour candy on my belly, sunshine on my face.
Everything was perfect.
Elliot asked if I wanted ice cream. I did.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt light.
Boundaries don’t feel strong at first. They feel terrified. Like loss.
But eventually, they feel like air.
And I was finally breathing.
