Eight months pregnant, I should have been glowing at my sister’s fancy wedding, eating cake and resting my swollen feet.
Instead, I got dragged into the most outrageous “family duty” of my entire life—and it pushed me right to my breaking point.
People usually gasp when I tell them I’m eight months pregnant. They give me that soft, sympathetic look and say something like, “Oh wow, you must be so exhausted!”
If only they knew the half of it.
Sure, I love feeling my baby move inside me. But the extra weight makes me feel like I’ve aged twenty years in eight months. And honestly? Pregnancy isn’t even the heaviest thing I’m carrying.
Being Tara’s sister is.
My sister has this weird superpower—she makes everyone orbit around her. Not by asking nicely. No, Tara assigns tasks like she’s running a kingdom, and everyone just agrees because saying no feels like you’re inviting a hurricane into your life.
That’s exactly where I was when everything went downhill—sitting cross-legged on the floor of her living room, carefully gluing fake peonies onto wedding centerpieces. My hips were sore, my back was screaming, and my glue gun smelled like burnt plastic.
And then Tara dropped her “big idea.”
“I want to announce free transportation for all my wedding guests,” she said, smoothing her planner like she was petting a cat. “You know, Gabby? To make it look chic and classy.”
I stared at her.
“…Okay, Tara. That’s… nice,” I said slowly. “But how exactly are you going to do that? You already said you blew through your budget because of the food. That’s literally why we’re using fake peonies.”
“Oh, Gabrielle,” she said, like she was correcting a toddler. “Your husband has a transportation business. He has cars. Drivers. It’ll be easy. Child’s play.”
I blinked. Once. Twice.
“You… haven’t talked to Timothy about this,” I said. “He didn’t mention anything to me.”
“You can talk to him,” she waved her hand like shooing a fly. “He listens to you.”
“That’s not the point.”
For the first time, she looked up—annoyed, like I was ruining her mood by being reasonable.
“It’s not a big deal, Gabby. It’s your family’s business. Why not help your sister out on her big day?”
And then she delivered the knockout punch.
“And obviously, you’ll be one of the drivers,” she added. “You’re pregnant… so you’ll be the sober one. It’s not like you’ll be dancing all night anyway.”
My chest tightened. My baby kicked like even they were offended.
“So,” I said slowly, “you expect me to drive drunk strangers around a vineyard. Past midnight. While I’m almost nine months pregnant?”
“They’re not strangers!” she snapped. “They’re my rich friends. And I want everything to look effortless and glamorous.”
There it was again—image over reality.
Pretty over practical.
Fake elegance over actual human consideration.
I didn’t trust myself to keep talking. My hands were shaking. My throat was tight. I just texted my husband:
“Can you pick me up? Please.”
He texted back instantly.
“On my way. Got you tacos.”
Ten minutes later, he arrived. I stood up with difficulty, grabbed my things, and didn’t even say goodbye. Tara didn’t look up except to shout:
“Oh, Gabby? Tell Timothy I said thank you in advance! I know he’ll come through. That’s what family does!”
In the car, I told him everything as I inhaled tacos like my life depended on it. I expected him to explode in anger.
But instead, he got quiet. The dangerous kind of quiet.
By the time I finished telling him Tara had already printed the wedding programs saying “complimentary luxury transportation,” he reached over and squeezed my thigh.
“Don’t stress, babe,” he said calmly. “We’ll give Tara exactly what she asked for… just not the way she imagined.”
The Wedding Day
The venue was an overpriced vineyard with chandeliers hanging from trees like floating crystals. Tara called it “understated elegance,” which was hilarious because there was nothing understated about it.
I wore a navy maternity dress, flats, and the expression of someone who desperately needed a nap.
Timothy’s company sent five gleaming cars. Drivers in crisp uniforms opened doors, smiled politely, and looked like they were straight out of a luxury commercial.
Guests were impressed. You could see it in their eyes.
Exactly what Tara wanted.
She hugged me briefly before the ceremony.
“You didn’t disappoint me, Gabby!” she whispered. “I wasn’t sure you’d come through… pregnancy brain and all.”
I almost choked.
But I smiled. Because I’m polite like that.
The Reception — and the Revenge
The ceremony was stunning. The reception was loud. The desserts were incredible. The baby and I were eating our weight in chocolate-dipped strawberries.
Then the rides started.
And that’s when Timothy’s plan unfolded.
Every guest who got into one of our cars experienced top-tier service. But when they arrived at their destination, each driver delivered the same polite line:
“That’ll be $50. Cash or card. The bride said her guests are classy enough to contribute.”
Some guests laughed, thinking it was a joke.
Some got mad.
One lady clutched her pearls dramatically and gasped, “Tara told me it was FREE!”
But our drivers just smiled.
“We were given different instructions, ma’am.”
By midnight, Tara’s phone was blowing up so badly it could’ve caught fire. But she was too busy posing for photos in her second dress—a dramatic satin number with a slit up to her hip—to notice.
Until her guests cornered her.
And finally, she came storming toward me like a bride-zilla hurricane.
“GABBY!” she screeched. “What the hell is happening?!”
“What do you mean?” I asked sweetly.
“Everyone’s being CHARGED! You told me Timothy would take care of it!”
“He did,” I said. “Professionally.”
“You EMBARRASSED me!” she shrieked. “I printed that it was COMPLIMENTARY!”
“You printed it,” I reminded her, “without asking us.”
She was trembling with rage.
“Where’s the money? Where is it, Gabrielle?!”
“In the business,” I said with a shrug. “Where it always goes.”
“You were supposed to do this for me! It’s your FAMILY DUTY!”
Timothy slid a steady hand onto my back.
“Your friends are rich, Tara,” I said. “I figured they’d be classy enough to pay.”
Her jaw dropped.
I walked away.
Aftermath
Tara left me a voicemail the next day. A mix of screaming and crying.
Two days later:
“You humiliated me on the biggest day of my life. I’ll never forgive you.”
I put my phone down and ate a sour candy.
Three Days Later
We were leaving my OB appointment—everything perfect, baby healthy, heartbeat strong.
Our doctor smiled at us and said, “Still keeping the gender a surprise?”
“We are,” Timothy said proudly.
“Got you,” she laughed.
Afterward, Timothy asked, “Ice cream?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
At our favorite little shop, we sat on a bench eating cones. He looked at me softly.
“You okay?”
“I think so.”
“We did the right thing.”
“I know.”
He rested his head on my shoulder.
“She’ll get over it,” he said.
“Or she won’t,” I replied. “But that’s not my problem. We’re about to be parents.”
He smiled.
And I realized something.
Setting a boundary doesn’t feel powerful at first. It feels like guilt, like fear, like you’re abandoning someone—which is exactly what people like Tara want you to feel.
But eventually…
Boundaries feel like oxygen.
And I was finally breathing again.
My sister could keep her tantrums.
I was done being pulled into her orbit.
Soon, I’d become “Mom.”
And Timothy would become “Dad.”
And that was the only title that mattered now.