My younger sister had always held a grudge against me growing up, so when she suddenly asked me to be her maid of honor, I was thrilled. But I never expected the gut-wrenching shock when I saw the dress she chose for me. Her sneaky trick nearly shattered me—until I found the perfect way to turn the tables.
The wedding invitation sat boldly on my kitchen counter, its elegant script and floral patterns mocking me. My little sister, Zinnia, was getting married, and against all odds, she’d asked me—me, Calista, her lifelong rival—to stand by her as her maid of honor. After 32 years of tension and clashes, I was suddenly important enough for the spotlight.
I let out a wry laugh. “What’s so funny?” Juniper, my best friend, asked between sips of her coffee. I held up the invitation like a joke.
“Zinnia wants me to be her maid of honor.”
Juniper nearly choked on her drink. “No way. That Zinnia?
The one who smeared glue in your hair at your graduation?”
“The very same,” I muttered, running a hand through my much shorter hair—a lasting reminder of Zinnia’s teenage prank. “Calista, are you sure this is wise? I mean, your relationship with her has always been…”
“A disaster?” I suggested with a grin.
“Yeah, I know.”
Growing up, Zinnia lived in my shadow, though not by her choice. I was the sickly kid, spending more time under harsh hospital lights than out playing games. My parents were always drawn to my emergencies, leaving Zinnia to cope alone emotionally.
Over time, it bred a resentment in her that grew—showing up in sharp taunts, cruel pranks, and a barely hidden dislike of me. “Maybe she’s changed,” I said aloud, though I wasn’t convinced. Juniper frowned.
“People don’t shift like that overnight, Calista. Just… be careful.”
I nodded, though a small part of me hoped this could be our chance to mend things. The bridal shop was a swirl of cream and pink hues, with Zinnia standing at the center like a star in her sparkling gown.
“Calista! At last!” she called, beckoning me over. “So?
What do you think?”
I smiled, genuinely struck. “You look radiant, Zinnia. Truly.”
For a brief moment, I saw a glimpse of the kid who used to beg me to play pretend.
But it faded, replaced by a sly smirk. “Great. Now let’s find something that won’t make you look like a blob in silk,” she quipped, turning to the racks.
Yep. There was the Zinnia I knew all too well. As we sifted through dresses, I couldn’t help asking, “Why me, Zinnia?
Why’d you pick me as maid of honor? We’re not exactly close.”
She paused mid-reach. “You’re my sister, Calista.
Isn’t that enough?”
“Sure,” I murmured. “Wouldn’t want to let Mom and Dad down.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I dodged.
“Let’s just figure out this dress.”
In the weeks that followed, we were caught up in a frenzy of fittings, centerpiece choices, and forced sisterly moments. Against my instincts, I started to enjoy it. Zinnia actually seemed… different.
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