If you asked anyone who grew up around us, they’d tell you my older sister Claire was the golden child. The family treasure, the sun, everything revolved around. I don’t say that to be dramatic; it was just a fact.
She was the firstborn, the pretty one, the one who got straight A’s and trophies and applause for simply existing. Our parents didn’t love me less, at least not in a way I’d accuse them of. They just… reserved a special kind of awe for her, and I spent years learning to live in the shadow of it.
If Claire wanted the last cookie, she got it. If she wanted the window seat in the car, that was settled before I could blink. When she got into her chosen college, we threw a party.
When I got into mine, my mom said, “That’s great, honey, oh! Did you hear Claire might study abroad?” Everything about my life was measured by proximity to hers, and I learned early on that fighting it only made me look jealous. So I didn’t fight.
I built my own world, friends who saw me for me, a career I carved without comparison, and eventually, a person who loved me without conditions. Ethan. He loved me like I was the first star in the sky, not the second.
I remember thinking that if nothing else, marrying him would be enough to rewrite the story of my life. For once, a milestone that was mine. I imagined walking down the aisle as everyone watched me, only me radiant and chosen.
I should’ve known that dream was too simple for my family. It started three months before the wedding, in my parents’ living room, the same space where Claire’s achievements had been displayed on the mantel for years. Mom clasped her hands excitedly.
“We’ve been talking,” she said, “and your father and I think it would be perfect if Claire walked down the aisle before you.”
I blinked. “As my maid of honor? Yes, she’ll walk before me.”
“No, dear,” Dad cut in.
“Not like that. We think she should have her moment first. A proper entrance.
Everyone will stand, and then you follow.”
I stared at them, stunned, thinking I must have misunderstood. “You want her to walk like… like a bride?”
“It wouldn’t take away from you!” Mom insisted quickly. “It’s just that she hasn’t had her special day yet.
And she deserves to feel that.”
I opened my mouth, closed it. “Mom… Claire isn’t the one getting married.”
Dad sighed, like I was missing something obvious. “She’s older.
It’s proper that she walks first.”
Proper. Right. Because in their eyes, her place in the world always came first.
I was the runner-up, no matter the circumstance, even on the day meant for me. And then came the line that still makes my stomach twist. “We also think it would be lovely if she wore a white dress,” Mom said sweetly.
“So the photos feel balanced.”
Balanced. Like I was a design problem, not a bride. I felt the heat rise in my face.
“No,” I said. It was quiet but firm. Dad’s expression hardened.
“She deserves recognition. You’re being selfish.”
That word selfish hit me like a slap. After years of swallowing disappointment, stepping aside, clapping for her spotlight, suddenly wanting my own wedding day wasn’t selfish, but they couldn’t see that.
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