Helping my sister arrange her wedding took months. On the big day, Mom advised me to eat in the garage since the hall didn’t have “enough space” for me. Sad, but I didn’t argue.
I’m Ivana. I’m 30, single, have too many cake stands, and say yes when I shouldn’t be everyone’s stepping stone.
My sister Amanda is.
As Amanda planned her wedding, I was there every step of the way.
Shopping venues? Check.
Dress fittings? Yep.
Only the cake was my request. I like baking.
She smiled fake-sweetly and added, “Well, if you insist. Avoid becoming overly flashy.”
It’s buttercream, girl. Not the Olympics, I said.
She chuckled. But I didn’t.
I arrived early on Amanda’s wedding morning.
To illustrate, I saw a refurbished barn with string lights, described by Amanda as “rustic chic but not actually rustic.”
Where are you?,” Amanda’s seventh morning text murmured on my phone. A hair emergency!
Sighing, I adjusted a sugar flower one more time and went to the bridal room.
“Finally!” I pushed open the door and Amanda shouted. “My hair falls flat on the right.”
I stepped behind her after setting down my emergency kit—bobby pins, hairspray, cosmetics, safety pins.
I observed, “It looks exactly the same on both sides,” studying her flawlessly made bun.
“No, look.” She pointed out a tiny distinction only she could see. “Fix it.”
Amanda widened her eyes at the screen as her phone rang while I worked. It’s Simon. God, what if he backs out?
Please, Amanda, calm down! I told her he wouldn’t back down.
After a brief disagreement, she hung up and looked at me with those huge eyes that had saved her since preschool. Need a favor, Ivy. The vows…
Let me guess. Need someone to drive to your flat for your vows?
Would you? Please? While others focus on photographs and cosmetics, you are already prepared. She said.
“You literally saved my wedding!” My hand was squeezed.
I returned 45 minutes later with her vows.
“The florist messed up the boutonnieres,” Amanda sniffled at me.
“They should be tied with twine, not ribbon!”
“I’ll fix them,” I said.
Just for illustration, I had 10 minutes to put on my satin dress, meticulously matching Amanda’s color scheme, and apply mascara.
As people entered the reception area, I checked the cake again. It was perfect.
Walking to the seating chart, I traced the alphabetized names.
Mine was absent.
Checked again. Nothing.
Looking for a seat? Wedding organizer appeared near me.
My name is Ivana. Bride’s sister.”
“You’re not on the main floor plan. Let me ask the groom.”
Simon was loosening his tie at the bar. He lowered his face as I approached.
Hi Simon. I said congratulations.
“Thanks, Ivana.”
Seems I’m not on the seating chart?
“Oh. Yeah. About that… Amanda stated close family not in the bridal party would dine in the garage because there wasn’t enough space inside. Hope that’s okay?
The garage?? Where you park automobiles and keep Christmas decorations?
For illustration only: Simon Blenched. The setup is great! Tables, everything.”
“Where’s Amanda?”
Amanda posed with her bridesmaids in identical outfits and professional hair.
“Amanda, may I speak?”
“Now? In the middle of photos.”
“Just a minute.” Pulling her aside. “Simon told me to eat in the garage?”
Big sigh from Amanda. “Is that a problem? Space was limited.”
Looked back at the reception hall. “Seats are empty.”
“For important guests.”
Words hit hard. “And I’m unimportant?”
Rolling her eyes. “Don’t focus on yourself. Today is MY wedding.”
I baked your cake. Did your hair. I saved your vows. I repaired boutonnieres. You’ve had my planning help for 18 months.”
“Exactly! You helped. You do that. You assist.” Her phone camera showed her reflection.
“The garage has chairs and tables. Not like you’re eating in a ditch.”
I looked at her and saw clearly what I’d denied for years. I wasn’t her sister. I was her unpaid helper.
“You know? You’re right. My job is to assist.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she said as I left for the garage. “Just dinner!”
My buddy Chloe texted, “How’s the wedding of the century going?”
I shared a photo with the message “Living the dream in the VIP garage section.”
She replied instantly: “WTH? You serious?
No one saw me walking to the cake exhibit. Amanda and her entourage took photographs outside.
***
I took off my shoes, took off my satin dress, and put on my favorite sweatpants at home.
Holy cow! She helped me unpack the car. “You returned the cake?”
“I took my dignity back,” I said. “The cake was just the vehicle.”
WHERE IS THE CAKE? The volume of Amanda’s voice broke glass. You ruined my wedding!
“Oh no! My present was returned, I said quietly. “I wasn’t really a guest.”
“You kidding me? All ask where the cake is! The photographer is panicking since it was meant to be in all reception photos!”
Maybe check the garage?
“I can’t believe you would hurt me! My wedding day! My mom cries! Simon’s parents believe I’m nuts! Organizer had to rush to grocery shop for sheet cake!
“You are the most selfish person I’ve met!” she raged. “This is why you’re single at 30!”
“No, Amanda.”
The next morning, I drove the leftover cake boxes to downtown women’s shelter Home of Hopes.
“What’s the occasion?” Maria inquired.
Just wanted to bake. I thought someone may like it.”
As adults and children stared at the exquisite sugar flowers and precise piping, I helped serve portions.
“Are you a real baker?” she questioned.
“I am,” I nodded. ‘Tis my thing.
Later, driving home with empty cake boxes. Yes when I meant no for years. And the exquisite flavor of finally doing something for me.
