Eight months pregnant, Gabby was eagerly anticipating being a guest at her sister's extravagant wedding. However, she soon found herself thrust into an unexpected "family duty" that pushed her to her limits. As the wedding day approached, Gabby had to make a tough decision: when does loyalty end, and when does self-respect begin?

When I tell people that I’m eight months pregnant, their first reaction is usually a soft gasp followed by a comment about how "exhausted" I must be.

They don’t know the half of it. While I love feeling my baby kick inside me, the added weight is putting strain on my joints. Pregnancy itself is heavy enough, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of being in my sister's orbit.

Tara has always had a way of making everyone revolve around her. As kids, she never asked for help—she just assigned it. And somehow, you'd find yourself agreeing, not because you wanted to, but because saying no felt like inviting a storm into your life.

I was sitting cross-legged in my sister's living room, carefully arranging artificial peonies on the centerpiece bases, when she dropped her bombshell.

“I want to announce free transportation for all my wedding guests,” she said, smoothing down the pages of her wedding planner. “You know, Gabby? To make it chic and classy.”

I froze, my fingers halting mid-placement. The glue gun, still warm beside me, emitted a faint smell of burnt plastic. I looked up at her, stunned.

“Okay, Tara… that’s nice, sis,” I replied slowly. “But how are you going to pull that off? Didn’t you say you’ve already blown through your budget because of the food? That’s literally why we’re using fake peonies right now.”

My sister didn’t even glance up from her spot on the couch.

“Well, Gabrielle,” she said nonchalantly, “Since your husband owns a transportation business and has a few cars, it’ll be easy for him to handle. Child's play, really.”

I stared at her, unsure if I’d misheard her. But her tone was too calm, too sure of herself, like this had already been decided, and I was the last to know.

“You haven’t talked to Timothy about this,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “He didn’t mention anything to me…”

“You can talk to him, Gabby,” she waved her hand dismissively. “He listens to you.”

“That’s not the point.”

Finally, Tara looked up, mildly annoyed, as if I were the one creating the problem.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Gabby. It’s your family’s business. You guys have cars and drivers, why not help your sister out on her big day?”

I braced my hands against the carpet and pushed myself up with effort. The baby shifted inside me, clearly unhappy with the sudden movement.

“And you expect me to be one of the drivers, Tara?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Well, you’re pregnant... so you’ll be the ‘sober’ one,” she replied. “It’s not like you’ll be dancing all night anyway.”

My chest tightened—not from the baby pressing into my ribs, but from something deeper, a tightness that made my breath catch in my throat.

“Tara, I’m going to be nine months pregnant on your wedding day. You really want me to drive drunk strangers around at midnight?”

“They’re not strangers, Gabby!” she exclaimed, as if that made everything better. “They’re my friends. My rich friends. And you know what that means... I want everything to be classic and effortlessly glamorous.”

There it was again: her obsession with appearances.

With Tara, it was always about the image, never about how something felt or what it cost. It was about getting that picture-perfect moment, always chasing the illusion of sophistication, as if it could mask her transactional nature.

I stayed silent, my heart pounding, hands trembling despite my best efforts to stay composed. I reached for my phone and texted Timothy.

“Can you pick me up soon? Please?”

He responded immediately.

“Already on the way. Be there soon, love. Picking up some tacos for you too.”

When he arrived ten minutes later, I stood without saying goodbye. My back ached from sitting for so long, and the effort of standing made me dizzy. Tara barely looked up from her laptop.

“Oh, and Gabby?” she called as I reached the door. “Tell Timothy I said thank you in advance. I know he’ll come through for me. That’s what family does.”

In the car, I told Timothy everything while I devoured my tacos. I expected him to be angry, maybe even frustrated.

But what I got was calm. It was the kind of silence that comes from someone who’s already decided what they’re going to do.

“She already printed the wedding programs,” I finished. “They say, and I quote, ‘Complimentary luxury transportation provided by the bride’s sister and brother-in-law, courtesy of their company.’”

He didn’t respond right away. He just kept driving. Then, he reached over, placed his hand gently on my thigh, and smiled.

“Don’t stress, Gabby. We’ll give Tara exactly what she asked for... just not the way she imagined.”

The wedding was on a Saturday evening, at a vineyard in upstate New York—Tara’s idea of “understated elegance.” Ironically, that meant fifteen chandeliers and a string quartet flown in from another state.

It was the kind of place that looked expensive even before you stepped out of the car.

I wore a navy maternity dress and flats that made walking bearable. My ribs ached with every shallow breath. I was supposed to look like a guest, but I didn’t feel like one.

Instead, I felt like an exhibit: the Obliging Sister. Polished, present, but invisible.

Timothy’s company dispatched five cars that night. Each one gleamed in the vineyard’s low light, like glass stretched over steel. The drivers wore tailored uniforms, exuding the kind of authority that made even the loudest guests pause.

Guests were clearly impressed, and it was exactly how Tara wanted it.

I saw her once before the ceremony. She gave me a quick hug, her arms cold, then whispered into my hair.

“You didn’t disappoint me, Gabby! I’m glad you came through, girl. I wasn’t sure you would. Pregnancy brain and all…”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tara,” I said, forcing a smile.

The ceremony went smoothly. The couple exchanged vows beneath a lavish flower arch. Cameras clicked constantly, my mother in tears, just like everyone else.

Then came the reception—loud, full of linen napkins probably more expensive than my grocery budget. But the desserts were divine, and the baby and I happily ate our way through the evening.

But the real magic started when the rides began.

We didn’t let anyone drive. Instead, we allowed our drivers to handle everything.

Each guest who requested a ride was treated like royalty. The drivers opened doors, confirmed names, and clarified routes. When they arrived at their destinations, they turned and said politely, “That’ll be $50. The bride said her guests are classy enough to contribute to our services. Cash or card, we accept both.”

Some guests laughed, thinking it was a joke. Others blinked in confusion. One older woman clutched her pearls and gasped.

“Tara told me it was free!” she said, rolling her eyes.

In those situations, the drivers smiled and replied, “We were given a different instruction. Apologies for the miscommunication.”

By midnight, Tara’s phone was a war zone. Guests texted, called, and even confronted her at the bar about the charges. But she was too busy posing for photos in her second dress, a satin gown with a slit up to her hip, to notice the smoke rising around her.

It wasn’t until the end of the night, when most guests had left and the fairy lights started flickering, that she found me.

“Gabby,” she hissed, rushing toward me, her bouquet half-crushed and makeup smudging. “What the hell is happening?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“Everyone’s being charged! Gabrielle, you told me Timothy would take care of it!”

“Of course, he did,” I replied. “He took care of it like a professional—charging for a service.”

“You embarrassed me!” she shrieked. “Do you know how this makes me look? I printed it as complimentary, Gabby! Don’t you know what that means?”

“Yes, Tara,” I replied calmly. “You printed it. But without asking us.”

She looked like she was about to throw her bouquet at me, her fingers clenched tight, her jaw twitching.

“Where’s the money? Gabby? Where is the money?” she demanded.

“It went into the business,” I replied. “Just like it would for any other client.”

“You’re my sister!” she screamed. “You were supposed to do this for me! It’s your family duty!”

I felt Timothy’s hand slide around my back, grounding me with a pressure that said, “I’ve got you, babe.”

“But your friends are rich, Tara. And I thought they’d be classy enough to pay for themselves.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. I turned and walked away, Timothy’s arm steady around me.

The next day, Tara called. I didn’t answer, but I saw the voicemail she left. It was a mix of rage and tears.

Two days later, she texted: “You humiliated me on the biggest day of my life, Gabrielle. I’ll never forgive you.”

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the delete button. But instead of deleting it, I set my phone down.

Three days later, as I sat in the passenger seat with the windows cracked, my legs swollen, and a bag of sour candy resting on my belly, I realized something.

We had just left my OB-GYN appointment, and the doctor had told us everything looked perfect.

“Really, this little one’s head is down and progressing perfectly for a natural birth,” the doctor had said. “Still keeping the gender a surprise?”

“We are,” Timothy replied, grinning. “It’s the best kind of surprise!”

A few more weeks, and we’d finally meet our little bundle of joy.

Timothy glanced over at me as he drove toward the ice cream shop we loved. “Want to celebrate with some ice cream?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

At the shop, he helped me out of the car like I was made of glass. We ordered our usual, and sat at a nearby bench, savoring each bite.

“I still can’t believe Tara tried to turn your third trimester into an Uber shift, Gabby,” he said, shaking his head.

“Right?” I laughed. “She really thought she was being generous. I mean... I got offered the honor of being a ‘sober driver’ for a bunch of drunk strangers. On my swollen feet. At midnight.”

“The next time your sister needs a favor,” Timothy said, “We’ll tell her we’re booked with nap time and feeding schedules.”

As we sat there, the weight of the world seemed to melt away. For the first time in a long time, I realized I wasn’t the one spinning anymore. Tara could keep her tantrums, and my husband and I had better titles waiting for us: Mom and Dad.