In their minds, Brooke’s wedding was a sacred, unmissable event that absolutely required my presence and my support and my enthusiasm. But mine had been optional at best. Disposable. Forgettable. Something they could skip without any real consequence or guilt.
My mom stood up from the couch and walked over to me with slow, deliberate steps, her expression softening into something that might have looked like genuine concern to someone who didn’t know her as well as I did. She reached out to touch my arm in what I’m sure she thought was a comforting gesture, but I stepped back before her hand could make contact.
“Erica, sweetie, I know you’re upset about something,” she said in that patronizing tone I’d heard my entire life, the one that made me feel like a difficult child who needed to be managed. “But you really need to put whatever this is aside for now. This is Brooke’s day. She’s your little sister. You can’t let whatever grudge you’re holding on to ruin this for her. She’s so excited about this wedding, and she really wants you there to celebrate with her.”
Grudge.
That single word hit me harder than I expected, landing like a physical blow. As if the profound hurt I’d carried for eight months was petty and small. As if my pain was nothing more than an inconvenience they had to carefully manage, like a difficult seating arrangement or an unexpected weather problem.
