When I tell people I’m eight months pregnant, they sigh, “You must be exhausted.” But they don’t know the half of it. The real challenge? My sister, Tara. She’s always been the kind who makes everyone orbit around her. Even as kids, saying no felt like inviting a storm.
One afternoon, I was arranging fake peonies for her wedding when she casually announced: “I want free transportation for all my guests. Your husband can handle it, Gabby.”
I froze. “You want me to drive drunk strangers at nine months pregnant?”
“They’re not strangers! And classic, effortlessly glamorous—remember?” she said, tossing the words like confetti.
I texted my husband, Timothy. Calmly, he replied: “We’ll do it… just not the way she imagines.”
On wedding day, we sent her guests in luxury cars with full service—but with a twist: each guest paid a nominal fee. Tara’s phone blew up. Her face went from smug to shocked as she realized her “generosity” had been turned on her.
Afterward, Timothy and I celebrated with ice cream, swollen feet and all. I finally felt free—no more orbiting someone else’s drama. My baby deserves a mom who knows the difference between love and losing herself.
Tara? She can keep her tantrums. We have bigger titles now: Mom and Dad.
