Our wedding day was everything we hoped for—sunny skies, soft winds, and the scent of wildflowers all around. But while most of the day felt magical, my sister-in-law, Jenna, seemed determined to rain on our parade.
From the moment the bridal party arrived, Jenna was visibly annoyed—squinting at the sun, tugging her dress uncomfortably, and mumbling complaints like “It’s too hot,” or “This dress hugs all the wrong places.” When it was time for group photos, she barely made an effort to smile and rolled her eyes in half the shots. Nina, my wife, tried her best to include her, even handing her water with a hopeful smile, but Jenna just stared at it coldly.
Despite everything, the day was beautiful. Nina was radiant as she walked down the aisle, and by the time we shared our first dance under glowing string lights, it felt like we were wrapped in a dream.
Weeks later, our photographer sent us the photo gallery. As Nina and I looked through it, we laughed, cried, and relived every special moment. We decided to share some favorites online—and Nina, wanting to include her sister, sent the gallery link to the bridal party.
Minutes later, Jenna called in a rage.
“You let them take pictures of me like that?!” she screeched. “Delete every photo I’m in! If you post a single one, I’ll never speak to you again—and I’ll drag you both online.”
Nina was crushed. I held her as she blinked back tears and whispered, “I just wanted her to feel included.”
That night, after she fell asleep, I sat down at the computer.
Click by click, I cropped Jenna out of every photo. She had mostly been standing at the edge, so it wasn’t hard. By the time I finished, it was like she’d never been there.
The next day, we shared our wedding album online—filled with joy, laughter, and not a single trace of Jenna.
But she noticed.
She called me this time, livid. “You’re erasing me from your wedding?! From the family?!”
I stayed calm. “You asked us not to include any photos of you. I respected that.”
“That’s not what I meant!” she barked.
“Well, it’s exactly what you said,” I replied.
She hung up.
When Nina got home, I told her what happened. She stared at me for a moment, then laughed—a real laugh. She looked lighter.
“You actually did it,” she said. “You finally stood up to her.”
“I hope I didn’t cross a line.”
“No. You did what I’ve never been able to do.”
The fallout came quickly—calls and texts from Jenna to Nina (none to me), guilt-tripping messages from her parents, even a few from cousins urging Nina to apologize. But she didn’t. For the first time, she didn’t.
As we folded laundry a few nights later, she said quietly, “I should’ve stopped covering for her years ago. I’ve always tried to fix what she broke. But I’m tired.”
I nodded. “You don’t have to anymore.”
She leaned against me, a soft “thank you” on her lips.
For the first time in a long time, Nina could breathe. And so could I.
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