W moje 20. urodziny moja rodzina poleciała z moją siostrą do Rzymu, nazywając ją „jedyną osobą, z której jesteśmy dumni”. Miesiąc później, na jej ślubie, posadzili mnie obok toalety. Potem obok mnie usiadł nieznajomy mężczyzna i powiedział: „Proszę, pójdź za mną”. Kiedy wstał, żeby przemówić, WSZYSCY OBRÓCILI SIĘ W SZOKU.

Przechodziłem przez to wszystko – zajęcia, robienie notatek, udawanie, że wszystko jest w porządku. Tego wieczoru Victoria zabrała mnie do małej włoskiej restauracji. Czułem się, jakby to był okrutny żart, ale miała dobre intencje. Przy makaronie powiedziała to, co mówią ludzie z ciepłymi rodzinami, gdy nie rozumieją innego rodzaju domu.

„W końcu się przekonają.”

Nie mogła pojąć, co znaczy być ignorowanym przez ludzi, którzy powinni cię najbardziej kochać.

Kiedy wróciłam do domu, czekał na mnie kolejny SMS od mamy: Przedłużyliśmy wyjazd na weekend. Claudia znalazła idealne miejsce. Powinnaś je zobaczyć. Absolutnie oszałamiające.

Not even an apology for missing my birthday. Just an update about Claudia’s perfect life delivered with the emotional heat of a weather report. That night I lay awake and audited myself like a ledger—quiet child, not ambitious enough, too accommodating. Twenty years trying to solve the formula that would make them look at me the way they looked at Claudia, and I was no closer to an answer.

The next three months were consumed by preparations. Every dinner conversation was the wedding—the venue, the flowers, the dress, the guest list, the menu. My mother quit her part‑time job to plan full‑time. My father worked extra to pay for the dream. I practiced invisibility: smaller, quieter, never a burden.

“You’re invited, obviously,” Claudia said over dinner one night, barely glancing up from her phone.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“We’ll have you help with the setup,” my mother added. “You can make yourself useful.”

Not in the wedding party. Not sharing joy as a sister. Useful.

The invitation came in April: thick card stock, gold lettering. Mine arrived by mail like a distant cousin’s, not placed in my hand. At the bottom, in small print, a note about seating assignments distributed at the venue. Something about that phrasing made my stomach lurch, though I couldn’t say why.

May was chaos. My mother chased perfection. My father signed checks. I studied for finals and felt like a ghost in my own house. A week before the wedding, my mother sat me down with a task list—arrive early to arrange place cards, organize the gift table, be useful and inconspicuous.

“This is Claudia’s day,” she said. “Everything needs to be perfect.”

I understood exactly what that meant. My twentieth birthday would never be mentioned again. I was valued for what I could do, not who I was.

The night before the wedding, I almost chose not to go. Who would notice? Obligation kept me tethered.

June 12 dawned flawless. I dressed carefully in a pale blue dress Victoria helped me choose, applied minimal makeup, and faced my reflection: twenty years old and already exhausted by my own life.

The botanical garden sprawled over manicured acres. I arrived at eight as instructed. Planners barked orders. Florists wove ribbons through elaborate arrangements. Musicians tested equipment beneath an arch of white roses. My mother spotted me, stress radiating from her shoulders, clipboard clutched like a weapon.

“Finally. The place cards are a mess. Someone mixed up all the table assignments. Fix it.”

She shoved papers into my hands and disappeared.

I stood holding the crumpled lists, feeling the familiar weight of being simultaneously needed and dismissed. The cards were scattered with no organization. For two hours I sorted them, cross‑referenced names and table numbers, and made sure every guest would know exactly where they belonged. The irony didn’t escape me.

By ten, Claudia arrived with her bridesmaids—emerald dresses, champagne laughter. She looked stunning in her custom gown, lace and silk floating like a dream. Photographers swarmed. No one asked me for a single photo. No one seemed to notice I existed.

I finished the place cards and moved to the gift table, arranging packages with care. Guests started arriving around eleven. I watched them file in, exchanging warm greetings and excited chatter. Victoria found me near the back and pulled me into a tight hug.

“You holding up?”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

We found seats together, which suited me. I wanted to observe without being observed and to get through the day without incident. Thirty minutes before the ceremony, my mother appeared again.

“There’s been a seating change,” she murmured. “We had several last‑minute additions. We need to accommodate everyone.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Where should we sit?”

“Victoria is fine here,” she said briskly, tapping the chart. “We need you at table seventeen.”

I had memorized the seating chart while fixing it. Table seventeen was in the far corner of the reception area, tucked near the restrooms—the overflow table for distant relatives and obligatory invitations.

“That’s next to the bathrooms,” I said quietly.

“It’s where we need you. Please don’t make this difficult.”

Victoria stared, horrified. “Annabelle, no. You’re her sister.”

“It’s fine,” I heard myself say, my voice distant and hollow.

“It’s not fine. It’s cruel.”