My brother’s fiancée picked on me for years and expected me to pay for her wedding. I tried to keep things calm and agreed, but when she mocked my beloved dog Max, who’d passed away, calling him “just a sick animal,” I made sure she regretted every mean word. Ever meet someone and just know they’ll make your life miserable?
That was Stacy from the start. My brother Luke brought her to Sunday dinner three years ago, all smiles and clearly in love. I wanted to be happy for him.
I really did. But when Stacy walked in, she looked at me like I was dirt on her shoe. “Oh, you’re the sister,” she said, eyeing me up and down.
“Luke said you were… cute.”
The way she paused before “cute” told me everything. But Luke was beaming, so I forced a smile and played nice. That’s what you do for family, right?
You ignore the jabs, swallow the insults, and keep things peaceful. For three years, I kept swallowing. Stacy mocked my makeup.
“Is that eyeliner or a marker mishap?” She commented on my weight. “Those jeans are bold. I could never wear something that tight.” Worst of all, she hated my dog.
Max was a chocolate lab, all wagging tail and sloppy kisses. He was my best friend, my constant through breakups, job losses, and my dad’s death. He wasn’t just a pet—he was family.
But Stacy couldn’t stand him. “Why do you bring that dog to family dinners?” she’d complain, wrinkling her nose. “He stinks and sheds.
It’s gross.”
“His name’s Max,” I said politely. “He’s part of the family.”
“He’s a dog, Erin. Not a person.
Get it straight.”
When Luke proposed, I knew I’d deal with Stacy more. But I didn’t expect her to ask me to be her Maid of Honor. “You want me as your MOH?” I asked, shocked.
She waved a hand. “I don’t have sisters, and my friends are busy. Plus, it’ll look good for Luke if his sister’s involved.
Family unity, you know.”
I agreed because Luke looked so hopeful. I thought it’d mean standing beside Stacy for a few hours, smiling for photos, maybe giving a speech. How hard could it be?
Stacy’s idea of Maid of Honor was way different from mine. “I need you to book the venue,” she said one day, handing me brochures. “And the florist.
Oh, and Luke loves jazz, so find a jazz band. Can you handle it?”
“Sure, I can make calls, but…”
“Great. Use your credit card for deposits.
My parents will pay you back before the wedding.”
I blinked. “Hold on, what?”
“The deposits, Erin. Keep up.
My parents are covering everything, but their money’s tied up now. They’ll pay you back. No big deal.”
It felt like a big deal.
But Stacy was already walking away, phone to her ear, and Luke gave me that thankful smile that made it hard to say no. So I started booking. The venue needed a $3,000 deposit.
The florist wanted $800. The jazz band asked for $1,200 upfront. Then there was a fancy cake Stacy saw online—another $500.
It added up fast, and every time I brought up the money, Stacy brushed me off. “Don’t be so dramatic, Erin. You earn plenty.
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