The makeup artist turned into the venue deposit.
The venue deposit turned into upgraded linens because the originals “looked rented.”
The linens turned into imported flowers because store-bought was “for banquet halls and funerals.”
Then came the orchestra.
At the country club tasting, Lila took one bite of her sea bass and said,
“This is fine, I guess. But it’s not memorable.”
Dan looked confused. “It’s fish.”
“It’s wedding fish.”
The coordinator smiled at me.
“We can absolutely upgrade the menu. We’d just need the revised balance by Friday.”
I felt Lila kick my ankle under the table.
I smiled. “How revised?”
The number made my eye twitch.
Dan turned to Lila. “Did we talk about this, honey?”
“I mentioned wanting something more elevated,” she said.
Then she looked at me.
“And Yara said she wanted to help.”
That was how she did it. She never demanded—she made generosity sound like a promise I’d forgotten.
After the tasting, I followed her into the parking lot.
“You can’t volunteer my bank account like it’s part of the menu, Lila.”
She spun around. “Can you not do this out here?”
“Do what?”
“Talk like we’re fighting over money.”
“But we are fighting over money. Wake up.”
She exhaled hard.
“Why do you always make everything feel so heavy? Is it because your marriage failed? Is it because you’re alone? You need to get over it.”
“It’s because $12,000 for a wedding is heavy.”
She rolled her eyes and got in her car.
That Sunday, we met at our mother’s house.
Mom—Caroline—had a soft voice and a talent for making cruelty sound well-bred.
Lila pushed carrots around her plate.
“The venue just has certain standards.”
“People remember weddings,” Mom said.
“Not because of sea bass,” I replied.
Mom looked at me over her wineglass.
“She’s your younger sister. You’re supposed to take care of her.”
I set down my fork.
“No. I’m just the one you ask.”
Lila laughed. “Nobody’s forcing you, Yara.”
“That would land better if you weren’t saying it while spending money you don’t have.”
Mom sighed. “This is her big day.”
“And my actual life is still happening,” I said.
“My actual life is still paying bills while we’re pretending imported tulips will matter.”
Dan finally spoke.
“How much have you covered already, Yara?”
“Just a few things,” Lila said quickly.
“Almost $12,000,” I said.
His head snapped toward her.
“What? What about the wedding budget we agreed on?”
Lila glared at me.
“There was no reason to say it like that.”
“Like what? Accurately?”
The table went silent.
The final break came on a Thursday night. I stood in my kitchen, staring at a florist’s invoice.
Lila had called three times in ten minutes.
When I answered, she didn’t say hello.
“I need you to cover the floral shortfall. I emailed it.”
“I’m not doing that.”
Silence. Then:
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve already spent enough on a wedding that isn’t mine.”
“It’s not about you.”
“No kidding.”
She huffed.
“You said you wanted me happy. What kind of sister are you?”
“I do. I just don’t think happiness should need a payment plan.”
A pause.
“So that’s it? You’re cutting me off before my wedding?”
“I’m drawing a line.”
“At flowers?”
“No. At being treated like an ATM with childhood memories.”
She laughed coldly.
“Then you’re uninvited.”
I froze.
“What?”
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