Kara, my fiancée Colin’s younger sister, had always been spoiled. So when her wedding venue canceled three days before the big day, she and her mom turned to me—and my backyard.
I didn’t want my sanctuary turned into a wedding hall, but it was my future family. I agreed, only after making them promise not to touch anything. That promise lasted two days.
When I came home, my yard was unrecognizable—fence gone, flower beds ripped apart, my late mother’s roses hacked to pieces and shoved into Kara’s archway. She smiled and said, “Don’t you love it? This is MY wedding. I can do what I want.” Colin backed her up. His whole family laughed while I stood there, crushed.
I didn’t fight. I waited.
At the reception, Kara beamed as she opened gifts. When she reached mine—a big box wrapped in bright red—her smile vanished. Inside was a shattered photo frame of my mother in her rose garden, surrounded by the wilted stems Kara had destroyed. On top lay a note:
“You took my roses for your wedding. Now you can take the guilt, too.”
The room fell silent. Guests whispered words like “heartless” and “entitled.” An elderly woman, once my mom’s friend, stood up and walked out. Others followed. Kara shrieked, “It’s MY day!” but no one defended her.
The “perfect wedding” collapsed into chaos. Colin hissed that I had ruined everything. I looked him in the eye: “No—Kara did when she destroyed my mother’s memory. I only showed the truth.”
By the end, half the guests were gone, Kara was in tears, and her family’s reputation lay in shambles.
My yard was gone, but I still had the last word—and my mother’s roses bloomed one final time, just not the way Kara expected.
