My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been

“Mom,” I said, keeping my voice level, “I’m her sister.”

“I know, honey,” she replied, as if I’d said something naive. “But Clare wants everything perfect. The Wellingtons are very particular about image.”

I stepped inside. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and nervous energy. A garment bag hung from the coat rack—my mother’s dress for the wedding, probably more expensive than my rent.

“What about the rehearsal dinner tonight?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.

“Oh,” she said, hesitating, then smoothing her tone. “That’s family only. Immediate family in the wedding party.”

“I’m immediate family,” I said.

“You’re not in the wedding party,” she replied, and the rest of the sentence stayed unspoken: therefore, you don’t count today.

That night, I ate takeout alone in my childhood bedroom while my family attended the rehearsal dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Through social media, I watched Clare post photos with the Wellingtons—everyone in crisp outfits, champagne flutes raised, smiles polished. My parents looked like they were auditioning for a better life.

I wasn’t in any of the pictures.

My phone buzzed with a text from Daniel.