The Setup Started Long Before the Ceremony
My name is Rebecca Martin. I live in the Boston suburbs with my daughter, Emma.
Emma is 15—quiet, observant, and the kind of kid who apologizes when someone else bumps into her.
My younger sister, Jessica, was getting married at a luxury hotel. Everything about it was “perfect.”
Perfect venue. Perfect guest list. Perfect fiancé: Ryan Mitchell, real estate, confident smile, always performing.
And then there was my mother, Linda.
She adored Jessica in a way she never even tried to hide.
When Jessica wanted something, it appeared. When I needed something, I was told to “manage.”
I thought I’d outgrown the sting of it.
I was wrong.
A week before the wedding, Jessica told me about her dress.
“It’s pure white silk. Hand lace. It’s the one.”
Then she dropped the price like it was a casual detail.
$100,000.
I froze. I couldn’t even pretend that number sounded normal.
My mother immediately defended it—like I’d insulted the family name.
Then came the rehearsal dinner.
Emma was tense in a way I couldn’t explain. She kept scanning the room like she was waiting for something to happen.
When she went to the restroom and returned, her face looked drained.
My mother didn’t ask if she was okay.
She warned me.
“Watch Emma. Don’t let her cause problems tomorrow.”
That line didn’t make sense at the time.
It would later.
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