“You just make it awkward for everyone.”
My mother’s voice cut through the kitchen like a blade, her words delivered with that practiced coldness she’d perfected over the years. I stood there holding my coffee mug, watching steam rise from the dark liquid while she continued arranging flowers for what felt like the hundredth centerpiece discussion this month.
“I completely understand,” I replied, setting the mug down with deliberate calm.
My name is Sophia, and I’m 27 years old. I work as a freelance photographer in Portland, Oregon, specializing in destination weddings and editorial shoots. My work has taken me to incredible places around the world, capturing moments of pure joy and love for couples who trust me with their most precious memories.
What makes this conversation particularly bitter is that I’ve photographed over 200 weddings, but I won’t be attending my own sister’s.
“Good,” my mother said, not bothering to look up from her flowers. “Elena’s day needs to be perfect, and you know how you can be sometimes.”
How I can be sometimes.
That phrase had followed me through childhood, adolescence, and apparently into my adult life. It was code for being too tall, too opinionated, too successful, or too anything that might overshadow my younger sister, Elena.
At 24, Elena had always been the family’s golden child. She was petite where I was tall, soft-spoken where I was direct, and most importantly, she’d chosen the “right” kind of life according to my parents.
Elena was marrying Bradley, a real estate agent she’d met through friends. Their wedding was planned for a beachfront resort in Miami, complete with 200 guests, a string quartet, and enough white roses to fill a greenhouse. Every detail had been discussed endlessly at Sunday dinners, from the exact shade of ivory in her dress to the flavor profile of the seven-course dinner.
“The guest list is already so tight,” my mother continued, finally glancing at me with those pale blue eyes that had never quite seemed to see me properly. “Elena really wanted to include some of Bradley’s college friends, and you know how these venues are about numbers.”
I nodded again, though we both knew this wasn’t about venue capacity. This was about the same pattern that had defined my relationship with my family for as long as I could remember.
When Elena graduated high school, I was asked not to bring up my photography scholarship because it might make her feel bad about her grades. When she got engaged, I was told to keep my own relationship with Lucas quiet because she needed time to be the center of attention.
Lucas.
Just thinking about him made my chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the coffee. We’d been together for three years, having met when I photographed his sister’s wedding in Barcelona. He was a cinematographer and documentary filmmaker, splitting his time between Los Angeles and wherever his projects took him around the world. My family had met him exactly twice, both times treating him with the kind of polite disinterest they reserved for my career achievements.
“When is Elena’s wedding again?” I asked, though I knew the answer perfectly well.
“October 15th. The ceremony starts at four, and we’re doing photographs on the beach at sunset.”
My mother’s voice softened when she talked about Elena’s plans, the way it never did when discussing my work.
“She’s going to look absolutely stunning. Bradley’s grandmother is letting her wear the family pearls.”
October 15th.
I filed that date away carefully, though for reasons my mother couldn’t imagine.
“That sounds beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
Despite everything, I wanted Elena to be happy. The problem wasn’t my sister herself, but the way my family had created this dynamic where only one of us could shine at a time, and it was never my turn.
My phone buzzed with a text from Lucas.
Coffee meeting went great. Milano confirmed for October. Everything still good on your end?
I smiled, typing back quickly.
Perfect timing. Just had an interesting conversation with my mother.
“The wedding is going to be photographed by someone from the resort,” my mother said, pulling me back to the conversation. “They do beautiful work. Very traditional and elegant.”
Traditional and elegant.
Unlike my style, which had been described in magazines as bold, cinematic, and emotionally raw. I specialized in capturing the moments between moments—the tears of joy when nobody was supposed to be looking, the spontaneous laughter during formal poses. My portfolio had been featured in several international publications, and I’d been booked solid for the past two years.
“I’m sure they’ll do a lovely job,” I said.
My mother finally looked at me directly, studying my face as if searching for signs of the drama she expected.
“You’re taking this very well. I was worried you might make a scene.”
Make a scene.
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