“Unlike you, your sister’s making us proud. Don’t ruin her day.”
My dad said those words while adjusting his tie in the mirror, not even bothering to look at me directly. I stood in the doorway of the bridal suite at the Fontaine Hotel in Nashville, holding a garment bag with the bridesmaid dress I had paid for myself, and felt the familiar sting of being invisible in my own family.
My name is Evelyn. I am twenty-nine years old, and for as long as I can remember, I have existed in the shadow of my younger sister, Brooke. She’s twenty-six, blonde, petite, and according to my parents, the embodiment of everything a daughter should be.
I am none of those things to them. I am simply the other one. The one who works too much. The one who never settled down. The one who, despite every achievement I have earned, remains a disappointment in their eyes.
The irony of my father’s words was not lost on me. Here I was, standing in a venue that I had personally funded because my parents claimed they could not afford the wedding Brooke wanted. Here I was, having written a check for $47,000 to make my sister’s dream day a reality.
And my father was warning me not to embarrass the family.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to remind him that the flowers cascading from every table, the crystal chandeliers illuminating the ballroom, the five-course dinner that would be served to two hundred guests—every bit of it existed because of me.
But I did what I had always done. I swallowed my anger and nodded.
“I understand, Dad,” I said quietly.
He finally glanced at me, his expression softening only slightly.
“Good. This is Brooke’s day. She deserves to be happy.”
And I don’t, I thought, but I said nothing.
I work as a regional director for Thornwick Hospitality Group, a boutique hotel management company that operates luxury properties across the Southeast. I started as a front desk clerk at twenty-two, fresh out of college with a degree in hospitality management and a mountain of student debt. I worked doubles, covered shifts no one else wanted, and slowly climbed my way up. By twenty-five, I was an assistant general manager. By twenty-seven, I was running one of our flagship properties. Now, at twenty-nine, I oversee operations for twelve hotels across four states.
My parents have never once asked about my job. They have never visited any of the properties I manage. When I told them about my promotion last year, my mother’s response was, “That’s nice, honey. Did you hear Brooke got engaged?”
That conversation set the tone for everything that followed.
Brooke’s engagement to Tyler was the event of the decade in my family. Tyler works in pharmaceutical sales, drives a leased BMW, and has the kind of generic handsomeness that photographs well. My parents adore him. They talk about him like he is already a member of the family—which, I suppose, he would be after today.
When Brooke announced that she wanted a spring wedding at the Fontaine, one of the most exclusive venues in Nashville, my parents panicked. They had been living beyond their means for years, funding Brooke’s lifestyle while simultaneously criticizing mine.
The down payment for her condo? They co-signed. Her new car when she graduated? A graduation gift. The designer wardrobe she flaunts on social media? Birthday presents. Christmas presents. “Just because” presents.
Meanwhile, I paid my own way through college. I bought my own car. I furnished my own apartment. And when the bill for the wedding venue came due, guess who got the call?
Evelyn.
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