Once my widowed mom found love again, my family celebrated—except my bitter Aunt Dana. Her jealousy was poisonous, and she crossed the line by wearing a bridal-white gown to the wedding to get attention. I gave her attention in the most degrading manner imaginable, and the satisfaction of seeing her squirm was pure bliss.
Five years ago, a phone call broke our family.
Dad’s automobile slid on a rainy route home from work. He never reached hospital. He was gone.
The quiet in our dwelling suffocated any sound.
I was 13 and believed silence would ruin us, but Mom saved us.
At 35, she gracefully carried her sadness, giving me the courage to take second chances.
She carried her sadness like armor for five years, never dating or looking at other men.
Does healing take time?
As I became older, I wanted Mom to get Dad off the sofa to dance to “Unbreakable” whenever it played.
When she fidgeted with her chopsticks over takeout one night, a hesitant grin appeared, I knew something had changed.
“Something’s up with you,” I said. “You glow lately. Spill.”
“I’ve been seeing someone,” she said, shaking like pleasure was prohibited.
I almost choked on lo mein. “Who? When? How long?”
She laughed with delight I hadn’t heard in years. His name is Greg. He’s amazing, darling. Patient, witty, kind.”
When I met him, I understood.
Greg was kind, courteous, and looked at Mom like the stars. When her eyes gleamed like Dad’s? That convinced me.
“When’s the wedding?” Grinning, I teased.
Mom flushed schoolgirl like. We haven’t—
Come on, Mom. When?”
Thus, I plunged into wedding preparations. She earned every minute of joy, flower, and perfect detail.
She was ready for lace after five years of armor.
As the news spread, messages came in. Aunt Dana arrived after most were warm and thrilled.
Married again? So soon? Her remark was snide.
Later: “White dress? At your age? Do you find this wedding a little tacky?
Traditional Aunt Dana, venomous.
Dana, Mom’s three-year-old younger sister, exemplifies “main character syndrome,” spewing passive-aggressive insults.
She often says Mom “lucked out” in love while plagued with deadbeats, but those messages made me shiver.
I began storing screenshots.
I felt a storm, not because I’m petty (though I am).
Dana became more evil in the weeks before the wedding. At a family lunch, her grin cut glass.
“A full wedding? Wasn’t this a little excessive? Talking about plans made her coo.
Mom smiled softly. “Everyone deserves joy, Dana.”
Dana mumbled, lips twitching, “Hmph, some more than others, I suppose.” “You’ve had your fairy tale, right?”
Mom smiled, but her shoulders stiffened as Dana gulped her coffee, grinning like a hit.
I started planning countermeasures then. Mom’s joy required protection.
Dream wedding day.
Mom sparkled in her lace gown among candles and her beloved lilacs.
The doors burst open as I saw her dance with Grandma, Grandpa gone.
Dana stood at the entryway with her hand on her hip, her bridal-white satin gown clinging to her, beads sparkling like a chandelier. She wore a bridal dress to Mom’s!
The room was silent but for the band’s notes.
She threw her hair and cackled loudly: “What? No one wears white like me. It’s okay to outshine the bride!”
I looked at Mom. She momentarily resembled the shattered lady from five years ago as her excitement faded.
I weaved through the throng to her.
I muttered, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” holding her. “She won’t ruin your day.”
“Please…no scene,” Mom whispered.
Squeezing her shoulder. “No drama, Mom. True justice.”
Brian, my boyfriend, was close.
“Operation Aunt Ambush?” he inquired, grasping my hand.
I nodded. She wants the stage? Let’s give her a memorable spotlight.”
My strategy took form as we sneaked past visitors.
Steal the spotlight if no one gives it to you
I was always the “too much” sister—loud, filthy, and shattered to notice.
Mom? She’s had love, luck, and another happily-ever-after.
Her spouse died, yet she gets a second prince while I get scraps?
I didn’t text like I was excited when she announced her wedding.
My honesty was tough and necessary.
She disregarded me, prancing toward her ludicrous white-dress show at her age.
On my lunch hour two weeks before, I assaulted a dress boutique. “Something for a wedding,” I informed the cashier.
She said, “You’re the bride?”
Smirked. “Not quite.”
The white satin dress with crystal beads and a severe neckline reflected my wrath. It embraced me vengefully.
I deliberately came late. Let them whisper.
Mom danced with our mother, dewy-eyed and camera-ready. A blushing bride hoax.
But as I entered, everyone looked at me.
“Well,” I continued, voice booming, “I look better in white than anyone here. No need for the bride!”
My niece, that arrogant clone, ran to Mom, talking and hugging.
Whatever. I enjoyed relatives’ envy as I welcomed them.
Seeing the seating map made me hot. I was supposed to sit at table three near the bride.
My name was gone. My punishment was a table beside the DJ booth.
My initial impression was that it was ideal real estate to flaunt. However, the trap closed as I approached.
I sat at the kids’ table with shouting brats and a subwoofer behind me!
I looked around and saw my niece and her boyfriend smiling like demons.
I marched over, calm yet furious. “Why did my seat change?”
Success lit her eyes as she grinned. “Since you wanted to be the star,” she said, “we put you center stage.”
Her remarks had been honed to hurt.
I could have yelled, but others were watching. I sat with the music blasting and kids shrieking, smiling firmly.
I attempted to change seats, but everyone ran away with bogus excuses—liars!
My garment was juiced by a child. Someone hit me with a foam sword. I sat through speeches, laughing, and dances mocking me, all I’d never had.
My niece planned this to embarrass me, and I know she enjoyed it.
I wouldn’t be their scapegoat. I departed before the cake without saying goodbye.
Next followed photographs. None included me.
They eliminated me after my circus experience!
The deceitful witches tempted me and punished me for shining.
I’ll proudly wear the villain’s crown if history is rewritten.
I didn’t come to fade. They should’ve known.
If they believe I’m done?
Second act coming, they’ll pay.
