My sister called me “disgusting” and a “burden,” insisting I disappear from her wedding photos because my wheelchair didn’t fit her vintage garden theme. But fate had other plans, and her perfect day unraveled into a viral moment that destroyed everything she cared about.
I’m Angelina, and I’ve been in this wheelchair for eight years. I thought I’d made peace with it. The car accident that stole my ability to walk also took the version of myself I thought I’d always be. But I rebuilt slowly, piece by piece, like putting together a puzzle missing half its parts. I have a small apartment, a remote job that pays the bills, and a handful of friends who see me as myself, not just the wheelchair.
My sister, Lila, is the opposite of me in every way. Where I’m quiet, she’s loud and commands attention. Where I’m practical, she’s dramatic and treats life as her stage. I’ve learned to find beauty in small things, while she demands the world reshape itself to fit her desires, like she’s the star of her own reality show.
When she got engaged to Matthew six months ago, I was genuinely happy for her. Matthew is kind, attentive, and the kind of man who notices when you’re having a bad day without needing to be told. He deserved someone who valued that kindness, though I wasn’t sure Lila was that person.
The moment she got that ring, she became a wedding-planning whirlwind. Her “vintage garden party” theme consumed every conversation, every dinner, every phone call. Mason jars, blush tones, floral arches, and violin music dominated her world.
“It’s going to be absolutely perfect,” Lila said one evening, scrolling through Pinterest with the intensity of a general plotting a campaign. “Every single detail has to be flawless.”
I just watched her, wondering if she ever grew tired of chasing perfection.
When she asked me to be a bridesmaid, I broke down crying—tears from such a deep place I’d almost forgotten they existed. For once, she wanted me included instead of hidden away.
“Really?” I asked, my voice trembling with hope.
“Of course!” she said, though her tone was oddly measured, as if rehearsed. “You’re my sister.”
The words should have warmed me, but they didn’t quite reach her eyes. Still, I chose to believe them.
For a moment, I thought maybe something had shifted. Maybe she finally saw me as more than just the broken sister.
I was wrong.
A week later, she invited me over for coffee. I recognized the look on her face—one she wore whenever she was about to ask for something I wouldn’t like.
“I need to talk to you about something delicate,” she began, settling into her pristine living room. “You know how important this wedding theme is to me. Romantic, soft, aesthetic… everything has to flow together perfectly.”
My stomach twisted. “Okay..?”
Her gaze made my skin crawl. I’d seen that look before—when she told our parents I was “too fragile” for vacations, or suggested holiday photos “looked better” without me.
“Could you maybe find a way not to use your wheelchair that day?”
The words hit me like lightning.
“Excuse me?” I asked, stunned