Just as I said "yes" under the Eiffel Tower, my world felt perfect—until one question from Mom stopped me cold: “When’s the last time you spoke to Emma?” Weeks later, on my wedding day, my sister walked in holding hands with the one man who once shattered my heart—my ex.

We were walking along the Seine when it happened.

The lights shimmered on the river like a spilled bottle of glitter.

The sky above us had turned lavender, soft and dreamy, like a watercolor still drying at the edges.

I had to keep reminding myself this was real.

Mark squeezed my hand. Not too tight, just enough to make me feel like I mattered.

He always did that—held me like he was afraid I’d slip away.

His other hand was tucked in his coat pocket, the tip of his thumb tracing circles inside the fabric.

It was something he did when he was nervous. I didn’t think much of it then.

Paris. I never thought I’d see it. Not in a million years.

But there I was, walking beside a man who had taken me to four countries in three months: Milan, Berlin, Barcelona.

And now, Paris, under a sunset that looked like it had been painted just for us.

Before him, I barely left Des Moines. Before him, my biggest trip was to the outlet mall two hours south.

I’d lost touch with people though. Friends stopped checking in.

Mom’s texts stayed unread in a pile I promised myself I’d get to.

I told myself I’d call next week, maybe send photos.

But the truth? I was drifting. Caught up in the sparkle of it all.

Then we reached the base of the Eiffel Tower.

Music began, soft and slow. Violins. Like a dream.

A group of strangers holding red roses stepped out from behind the trees and lampposts.

They circled around us. I felt my breath hitch.

And then, Mark dropped to one knee.

“I know this has been quick,” he said, looking up at me.

“But I’ve never been more sure about anything. Will you marry me, Claire?”

My hands shook. My mouth opened, but no words came.

Then I laughed. Then cried. Then shouted “Yes!” so loud a couple nearby clapped.

Back at the hotel, while Mark was in the shower, I grabbed my phone.

I had to tell someone. I called Mom.

She was thrilled. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you!”

But then her voice dipped.

“Claire… when’s the last time you spoke to Emma?”

Emma.

My sister.

I froze.

Emma and I hadn’t spoken in more than six months.

No yelling. No slammed doors. No big falling out. Just quiet.

That kind of quiet that starts small and then grows roots, heavy and tangled, until it fills the space where words used to be.

We were close once. Closer than close. We shared everything—our room, our clothes, our dreams.

I used to braid her hair before school. She’d sneak candy into my bag during math class.

We stayed up late whispering about boys and future plans. Back then, we promised we’d never drift apart.

But we did.

Somewhere between work, grown-up schedules, and too many unsaid things, we lost our rhythm.

Texts turned into thumbs-up emojis. Then nothing.

“She doesn’t even know about Mark,” I admitted to Mom over the phone one night.

There was a pause on the line.

“You could call her,” she said gently.

“I will,” I told her. “Soon.”

But I didn’t.

The days got busy. The wedding came fast. Faster than I was ready for.

One minute we were tasting cakes, the next we were knee-deep in table runners and guest lists.

Every day brought a new decision, a new deadline.

It felt like trying to plan magic while riding a rollercoaster.

So I took the easy way out. I wrote her name on an envelope.

Tucked the invitation inside. Fancy paper with silver swirls. I told myself it was enough.

She’d come. She had to. She was my sister.

And once she saw me walk down that aisle, everything would fall back into place.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I dropped the envelope into the mailbox and walked away.

The church looked like something out of a magazine.

Sunlight spilled through the tall stained-glass windows, coloring the aisle in soft pinks and blues.

The scent of wildflowers—daisies, lavender, and baby’s breath—floated in the air, sweet and calming.

My dress fit like it was sewn by a dream. I felt beautiful. More than that, I felt ready. Ready to start a new life with Mark. Ready to let go of the past.

But then she walked in.

Emma.

Her hair was curled. Her dress, pale green and flowing, made her look like spring. But it wasn’t her that stopped my heart.

It was the man holding her hand.

Dylan.

My ex.

The one who ghosted me. Left me crying in my car, wondering what I did wrong.

Never called. Never texted. Just vanished like smoke.

And now, here he was, smiling and waving like we were old friends.

His hand around my sister’s waist. At my wedding.

I nearly dropped my bouquet.

My stomach flipped. My chest burned like someone had poured hot tea down my throat.

“She wants to ruin this,” I whispered to Mom, keeping my voice low.

“Why else would she bring him?”

Mom gave me that soft look she always gives when I’m about to lose it.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation, sweetheart.”

But I couldn’t think of one.

Emma avoided me the whole time.

Every time I stepped toward her, she floated away. Like a ghost in a crowded room.

She hugged guests, chatted with distant cousins, laughed too loudly. But not once did she look at me.

I decided to let it go. I told myself this day was about me and Mark. About joy.

And then, it happened.

A clink. The quiet ring of silver against glass.

I looked up.

Emma stood at her table, glass of wine in one hand, that small, polite smile on her face.

“I’d like to say a few words,” she said.

The room quieted. Chairs turned. All eyes on her.

And mine, filled with fear.

The whole room froze like it had been dipped in ice.

Emma stood with her wine glass raised, her voice soft but clear.

“Claire and I haven’t talked much lately,” she said.

“But I’ve always looked up to her. She’s brave. Wild. She follows her heart.”

I stared at her, unsure where she was going with this. My hands were tight around the edge of the table.

My heartbeat felt like it was pounding in my ears.

“She asked me to come today,” Emma went on.

“And I felt grateful. I knew she still trusted me. And I wanted to honor that.”

I relaxed a little, just a little. Maybe she was trying to make peace.

Then she turned toward me, her eyes too calm.

“That’s why I brought Dylan.”

Everything inside me tightened. I forgot how to breathe.

She smiled. “Because I wanted to return the favor. I wanted to show the same grace Claire always shows me.”

I stood, heart slamming in my chest.

“You brought my ex to my wedding—and call that grace?”

People turned. Chairs squeaked. You could hear silverware stop moving.

Emma didn’t even blink. “And you married mine,” she said.

Gasps rippled through the room like water hitting hot oil.

“What?!” I asked, my voice louder than I meant it to be.

We locked eyes. I didn’t care about the stares anymore.

The room could’ve been empty, and I still would’ve felt the weight of what she said.

She took a slow breath.

“Mark,” she said, her voice steady, “is my ex.”

I felt like the floor under me gave way.

The flowers, the music, the white dress—all of it blurred. My world tilted.

Nothing felt real anymore.

I didn’t wait. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the hallway, past the whispering guests, into the bridal room.

I shut the door behind us with more force than I meant to. The silence between us felt loud.

“What do you mean he’s your ex?” I said, turning to face her.

Emma leaned back against the wall, arms folded.

“I dated him two years ago,” she said quietly. “Before you ever met him. It didn’t last long… but it mattered. It hurt.”

“You should have told me,” I snapped.

She raised her eyebrows.

“When, Claire? We haven’t spoken in forever. You didn’t even tell me about him. Then I get a wedding invitation out of the blue?”

“I was busy!” I threw my hands up. “There were trips, planning, the dress, the guests—”

“And I was waiting,” she said, voice soft but steady. “Waiting for you to remember I exist. Waiting for you to call and just… be my sister again.”

We both stood there, breathing hard, the tension between us heavier than my veil.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my shoulders dropping. “I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”

Emma’s face softened. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have brought Dylan. That was low. I was just… mad. And hurt.”

I nodded slowly. “I miss you, Emma.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I miss you, too.”

We stepped forward at the same time and hugged—tight, warm, real. Like we used to.

She pulled back, brushing a tear from her cheek. Her lips curled into a grin.

“Now come on. You’re not gonna ruin your own wedding, are you? That’s my job,” she teased.

I laughed, wiping my own eyes. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, we opened the door. Together.