Never with white flowers trembling in a summer breeze while my pregnant sister stood at the edge of the aisle, pointing at me as if I were the villain in her tragedy.
Never with half the guests frozen in their chairs and the other half looking from her face to mine, trying to decide which version of the story they should believe.
Valentina had always known how to enter a room as though she were owed the spotlight.
Even as children, she could turn a scraped knee into a family emergency and a school recital into a one-woman coronation. I had spent my whole life adjusting around her moods, her needs, her latest heartbreak, her newest obsession. I had learned to be the quieter daughter, the easier sister, the one who would smooth over a scene instead of making one.
That habit had cost me more than I understood until I watched my own fiancé clasp her hand at my parents’ dinner table and announce a baby while everyone applauded.
Now she was doing it again, only this time she had chosen my wedding as her stage.
“You knew I loved him,” she shouted, breathing hard, one hand braced against the curve of her stomach. “You knew for years. You married him just to punish me.”