His name was Brendan.
He worked in finance, drove a Tesla, and had a family beach house on Kaioa Island.
My parents loved him. More importantly, he came from money, and that meant Melissa’s wedding could be the event my mother had been dreaming about since Melissa was born.
I was living in Atlanta when my mother called to tell me the news.
“We’re so happy,” she gushed. “Brendan’s family is wonderful. This is going to be the wedding of the year, Amanda. You’ll be there. Of course. Of course.”
She didn’t ask if I wanted to be a bridesmaid.
She just assumed I’d show up, sit quietly, and watch my sister live the life I’d never have.
And I did for a while. The wedding planning started immediately.
My mother called me once a month with updates.
The venue, a historic plantation estate outside Charleston.
The flowers, imported peies and garden roses.
The dress, custom Vera Wang. The guest list, 300 people. I listened.
I said, “Congratulations.” I asked polite questions.
Then she told me the budget.
“$85,000,” she said like it was nothing. “Your father and I are covering everything. Melissa deserves the best.”
I was quiet for a long time.
“That’s amazing, Mom,” I finally said.
I didn’t mention that when I’d gotten engaged two years earlier to my boyfriend of four years, they’d offered me $3,000 and said I should keep it small.
I didn’t mention that I’d called off that engagement 6 months later because he cheated. And my mother’s only response was, “Well, maybe it’s for the best. You’re not exactly easy to love, Amanda.”
I didn’t mention any of it. I just said congratulations and hung up.
6 months before the wedding, Melissa invited me to her final dress fitting. I drove down from Atlanta on a Saturday morning.
My mother, Melissa, and two of Melissa’s friends were already at the bridal boutique when I arrived. They were drinking champagne.
Nobody offered me a glass.
