That word—selfish—rang in my ears. At my own wedding?
My planner, Bella, looked like she’d seen a ghost. Some guests were already seated, whispering in confusion. Even Jessica’s fiancé, Ben, seemed bewildered. “Jess, you said Gina approved this.”
I turned to Bella. “Did you know anything about this?”
“Not a word,” she said. “I’ve been prepping your suite all morning.”
“Good,” I replied. “Let’s make sure Jessica’s ceremony finishes quickly. And Bella—please ensure she covers her portion of the expenses. Let’s start with the harpist’s extended time.”
Jessica’s expression changed. Bella calmly pulled up the vendor contract and started listing the additional charges: seating, musicians, catering, photography.
“You can’t charge me extra!” Jessica protested. “It’s just one event!”
“Actually,” Bella said with a professional smile, “your ceremony was not in the original agreement.”
Jessica turned to our mom for help.
But Mom shook her head. “You didn’t tell anyone about this. You need to handle it.”
Ben stepped back. “You told me your sister was okay with it. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.” Then he left quietly.
Jessica broke down. Eventually, our father asked security to escort her out so the actual wedding could begin.
After she was gone, Bella turned to me with a soft smile. “Ready to get dressed?”
My wedding unfolded exactly as it should have—joyful, romantic, and peaceful. Later, I told Leo everything. He was shocked. “If I’d seen that, I might have just let it happen to avoid conflict.”
“That’s why I’m glad you missed it,” I said with a laugh. “This day was for us.”
That night, as we unwound from the celebration, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Jessica, tear-streaked and quiet, wearing sweatpants.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“Why?”
“I just… I need to talk.”
I hesitated, then stepped aside. “Five minutes.”
She stood in the middle of the room, looking unsure. “Ben left. Mom and Dad won’t talk to me. My friends are upset. I don’t know why I make these choices. I didn’t mean to ruin anything.”
I stayed quiet.
“Can we start over?” she asked.
“No,” I said gently but firmly.
She looked hurt.
I continued, “I’ve spent years hoping you’d change, giving you chances. Now it’s time for you to do the work on your own.”
I opened the door. “I hope things get better for you. Truly.”
She nodded, turned, and walked away.
I closed the door, turned on the kettle, and—for the first time in a long time—felt at peace.