I didn’t dream of lace or bouquets to say “I do.” Kyle and I swapped vows at city hall—quick, no fuss, just rings and a burger joint after. We laughed over ketchup packets, and he grinned, “We’ll party big someday, Meg—but this is our vibe.” I loved it—practical, sweet, us. New gigs and house dreams trumped a splashy day, but his family saw “courthouse” and turned it sour fast.
His mom, Pam, fired off a group text that night: “Done, huh? Call us for the real deal!” I stared, stunned. At a pizza night, his sister Liz smirked, “So, Meg, when’s the actual wife gig start?” “It’s started,” I said. She chuckled, “No, like, with a wedding!” Kyle just sipped his soda. At a family cookout, his uncle said to a pal, “This is Meg, Kyle’s girl—wedding’s coming, huh?” I basted ribs, silent, steam rising with my frustration.
“Why don’t they get it?” I asked Kyle later. “Ignore them,” he waved off. But it stung—Liz’s man was family gold, while I got hushed tones and stares. I pitched in anyway—sorting his cousin’s garage sale, baking bars with Liz’s kids. “You’re the best, Aunt Meg!” they beamed, my only allies. I threw Pam’s anniversary brunch, but the sting peaked at her potluck. Grabbing juice from the shed, I heard her: “Meg’s not serious—no real wife dodges the aisle. She nabbed Kyle on the cheap.”
Liz chimed, “All about the ring, not us.” My heart stopped, juice cold in my sweaty grip. I didn’t crash in—I slid to the truck, bottle in lap, cab light flickering, and planned. They’d get their wedding, my way. I dodged Kyle’s “Everything cool?” over eggs with a clipped “Sure,” but our groove faded—late nights, blank looks, “Got food?” cutting me off. I quit begging for his ear, and he didn’t flinch.
I hit up a swanky print shop, picking classy invites—gold print, heavy stock: “Celebrate a new chapter with us.” No details, just when and where. I sent them to Pam, Liz, the uncles, and Kyle, mailing them with a coffee in hand. They RSVP’d quick—hooked. The day shone—clear, vibrant. Guests rolled into a lush estate, valets ushering them to a patio with twinkling candles and violin hums, air sweet with lilies.
Pam muttered, “This is wild,” Liz whispered, “Meg’s got connections?” I lingered inside, in a sharp white blazer—bold, not bridal. I stepped out, chatter dying, and took the mic. “You’ve all said my marriage isn’t legit—no grand day, no wife,” I said, steady. Kyle tensed, Pam glared. “Here’s your bash.” Servers passed out envelopes—divorce docs, stark and final. “No real wife, no need for a husband,” I declared. Shocks rippled, a spoon clattered.
“This spot? Mine from way back,” I told Kyle. “Two years pre-courthouse, and you never dug deeper.” Pam blanched, Liz gaped, Kyle edged forward, “Meg—” “You let them erase me,” I said. He froze, caught. I lifted my drink, “To fresh starts.” No clinks followed. I strode off, leaving them with the sparkle and their mess. They craved a wedding—I served them a wake-up call.
