My sister planted herself in front of the door, one hand braced against the frame, lips curling as she said, “There are no fat people in my wedding photos.” I took out the $20,000 check and ripped it into shreds. Good luck paying the suppliers, because the venue…
My sister blocked the bridal suite entrance with her hand on the frame, wearing a smile sharp enough to slice. “There are no fat people in my wedding photos.”
For a moment, the hallway fell completely quiet.
Behind her, the bridesmaids froze mid-sip with champagne glasses hovering near their lips. My mother dropped her gaze to her pearls. My father pretended to scroll through his phone. And my sister, Vivian, stood there in her white silk robe, glowing with expensive makeup and a kind of cruelty only family knows how to aim.
I looked at her.
“Excuse me?”
Vivian gave a soft laugh. “Don’t make this dramatic, Claire. It’s my wedding. I just want everything to look… cohesive.”
“Cohesive,” I echoed.
Her eyes drifted over my navy dress. Custom-made. Modest. Elegant. The same dress she had approved three months earlier when she needed my checkbook more than my dignity.
