I’m not a professional planner, but people often turn to me for events that shine—weddings, baby showers, anniversaries. Earlier this year, I helped plan my boyfriend’s sister’s wedding. Was I a bridesmaid? Yes. Was I also coordinating vendors and picking linens at 2 a.m.? Also yes.
But there’s always that one person who doesn’t appreciate your efforts. For me, it was my brother’s girlfriend, Sarah. She’d make snide comments like, “You really go all out for these little parties, huh?” or “Not everything needs to look like a Pinterest board.” She never thanked me for the holidays or birthdays I hosted—just critiques disguised as compliments.
Then Liam proposed, and Sarah’s attitude flipped. Suddenly, she was calling me daily and tagging me in “maid of honor inspo” boards on Instagram. A week into this, she asked me to be her maid of honor and help with the wedding planning. I declined, explaining I was already booked and could only be a regular bridesmaid.
Her demeanor changed instantly. Two weeks later, I received a call from Marcus, a hotel coordinator I work with. He confirmed my wedding details, saying Sarah had booked through them and mentioned I’d be in touch about the final headcount. Shocked, I realized Sarah had been using my name to secure discounts and even told vendors I was planning her wedding.
When I confronted her, she laughed it off, saying it wasn’t a big deal. I disagreed. She had impersonated me, using my professional relationships for her gain. I contacted every vendor she’d reached out to and explained the situation. They all agreed to blacklist her.
Her dream wedding crumbled. The family group chat has been on fire ever since. Half of them think I went too far. The other half thinks Sarah got exactly what she deserved.
Liam’s barely speaking to me. Mom keeps trying to play peacemaker. But me? I’m completely unbothered. I sit here sipping my coffee, scrolling through the Instagram posts from Sarah’s wedding—the generic hotel ballroom with its dated wallpaper and harsh fluorescent lighting, the wilted grocery store flowers, the cake that looks like it came from a gas station.
And I smile. Because here’s what I learned: when you treat people like stepping stones, don’t be surprised when they stop letting you walk all over them.