When I tell people I’m eight months pregnant, they sympathize—but they don’t know about my sister’s orbit.
Tara always makes people revolve around her, assigning help rather than asking. One afternoon, I was assembling fake peonies when she casually announced, “I’m providing free transportation for my wedding guests—your husband’s company will handle it.”
I froze. “How? Didn’t you blow the budget?” She brushed it off, implying her brother-in-law and I would cover it, expecting me to drive at nearly nine months pregnant.
I texted Timothy to pick me up—my back aching, legs swollen, and shaking with frustration. He arrived quietly, tacos in hand, then calmly reassured me: “We’ll do it—but not the way she imagined.”
At her upscale vineyard wedding, our company provided shiny chauffeurs. Guests were thrilled—until they were charged \$50. Confusion and complaints erupted. Tara panicked, furious as her guests felt misled by her “complimentary” claim.
When she confronted me, demanding I cover it, I stood firm: “It’s a business—it works like any other client.” She raged, calling me ungrateful. My husband held me steady as I walked away.
Three days later, I reflected in the car after an OB appointment. Our baby is healthy, head-down, and ready. Timothy and I celebrated with ice cream. He whispered, “We did the right thing.” I agreed—setting boundaries may feel guilt-ridden, but it’s essential.
Tara may never forgive me. But this baby deserves a mother who loves without losing herself.