The Wedding Revenge: How We Got the Last Laugh
Growing up, I always knew my parents loved my sister Melissa more than me. She was the favorite — the golden child — and I was the invisible one. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was a fact.
Every birthday, even my birthday, was all about Melissa.
I remember one year when I was turning ten. Mom didn’t ask me what kind of cake I wanted. Instead, she turned to Melissa and asked her what flavor she preferred. Melissa picked chocolate, even though I hated it. And of course, that’s what we got.
Vacations? Melissa picked the location. Movies? Melissa chose. Even lunch decisions went through her. My opinions were treated like background noise. If I tried to speak up, it was like no one heard me.
By the time I was 13, I had figured it out: if Melissa did something, it was perfect. If I did something, it was wrong. Always.
So I stopped trying. I stayed quiet, hoping they’d leave me alone. And they did.
But things changed in high school. Melissa’s popularity crashed and burned. Suddenly, her friends stopped hanging out with her, and she turned bitter. Guess who she took it out on?
“Carla stole money from my purse!” she screamed one evening.
I was in the next room doing homework. I jumped up. “I did NOT!”
Mom stormed in, arms crossed. “Melissa would never lie. Give it back.”
“I didn’t take anything!”
Then Dad joined in. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?”
I saw Melissa smirking behind them.
She spread lies about me — that I cheated on tests, gossiped about teachers, stole from lockers. None of it was true, but it didn’t matter. Everyone believed her. She made sure I had no friends left.
One day, when I was getting ready to go to the mall, Mom walked in.
“You’re not seeing Kayla anymore.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Melissa said she’s a bad influence.”
Just like that, another friendship gone. It felt like I was being erased from my own life.
But I didn’t fall apart. I made a plan.
I studied hard, earned a full scholarship, and got into a college in the next state. When I got the acceptance email, I hid in the bathroom and cried tears of joy.
I was finally getting out.
College felt like stepping into a whole new world. I made friends. I discovered I loved writing. I even started healing a little in my psychology classes.
And then I met Ryan.
He was kind. Funny. Smart. We talked for hours the first day we met in the library. Then coffee. Then dinner. Then two years passed in a blink.
One night, in our small apartment, he got down on one knee and said, “Carla, will you marry me?”
I said yes. And I meant it with all my heart.
We started planning a small wedding. Simple. Beautiful. Just for close friends and family. We were paying for it ourselves, so we decided to keep it budget-friendly and use the extra money for a dream honeymoon.
But then… they called.
“We want to help with the wedding,” Mom said sweetly. “We want to do this for you.”
I blinked. My parents? Wanting to do something for me?
Ryan and I visited them a week later. I was nervous. Ryan, who knew all the dark history, looked tense too.
We sat in the dining room when Dad pulled out a check and said, “We’ve already written it out.”
“But we have one condition,” Mom added, her smile tight.
“It’s not right for a younger sister to marry before the older one,” she continued.
“So Melissa will walk down the aisle first,” Dad said. “In a white dress. With flowers. A whole moment just for her.”
I sat there stunned. My chest was tight. I thought I might faint or scream.
But Ryan gave my hand a squeeze.
Then he leaned close and whispered, “Let them. Trust me.”
I nodded, slowly. And Ryan smiled and said, “We accept.”
My mom smirked like she’d won the lottery. She called Melissa in to talk about centerpieces, music, flowers.
Ryan complimented every terrible idea they had. “Love that color!” he said when Melissa picked a hideous gold table runner.
As we left, I stared at him. “What part of that was good, Ryan?”
He grinned. “They just gave us the perfect setup. Now it’s payback time.”
I stared. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Just stay away from them. Let me handle it.”
Over the next few months, Ryan played the part of the obedient future son-in-law.
He met with my parents regularly, agreeing with them and pretending I was “difficult.” He told them my ideas were “cheap” and “tacky” and whispered to Melissa that my bouquet of daisies would ruin her aesthetic.
Melissa freaked out. “She can’t have daisies! She has to have roses!”
And suddenly, I had roses.
They bought a fancy cake. They upgraded the venue. Melissa even picked expensive champagne.
Meanwhile, Ryan and I quietly booked a videographer — his cousin — and hired private security.
“Just one last thing,” Ryan told me. “We need guards. Trust me.”
The wedding day arrived. The venue looked incredible. Our friends arrived, all dressed up, smiling.
Then… Melissa arrived.
She stepped out of a shiny black car wearing a designer wedding gown that sparkled in the sunlight.
“Name?” asked the security guard, holding a clipboard.
She smiled. “Melissa. I’m the bride’s sister.”
He scanned the list. “You’re not on here. Sorry, you’re not allowed in.”
“What? That’s a mistake!”
“We were told no one else comes in after the bride arrives.”
Inside, I was holding Ryan’s father’s arm, waiting to walk down the aisle. The music started. I took a deep breath.
“Ready?” he asked.
“More than ever,” I whispered.
The doors opened.
Everyone stood. Cameras flashed. Guests looked around, confused. I heard someone whisper, “Where’s Melissa?”
But I just smiled and walked down the aisle like I was floating on air.
Outside, Melissa lost her mind.
Ryan’s cousin filmed everything. Melissa screamed, cried, ripped her veil off, and even threw her shoe at the security guard.
My dad charged forward. “Let her in! She’s walking first!”
Too late.
We were already married.
As we walked out of the chapel, my dad tried to block Ryan.
“We had an agreement!”
Ryan shrugged. “Nothing in writing. Must’ve been a misunderstanding.”
Then he took my hand, and we walked right past them.
At the reception, we danced, laughed, and toasted with the fancy champagne. We cut the cake they paid for and took photos with all our real friends.
The next day, we posted a thank-you note online:
“Big thanks to my parents for their generous support of our wedding. It was unforgettable!”
The video of Melissa’s meltdown spread like wildfire. Everyone saw it.
A week later, while we packed for our honeymoon, Melissa messaged me:
“He used us! You’ll regret this! He’s going to cheat on you — with ME!”
I showed it to Ryan.
He smirked, took a screenshot, and dropped it into the family group chat with no caption.
Then we turned off our phones and left for Bali.
After a lifetime of being ignored, blamed, and used — I finally had the last laugh.
And best of all? I had Ryan by my side.
Forever.
