My sister got married last week.
She wore a soft, chiffon, empire-line gown, and her husband-to-be had an actual tear in his eye as she sashayed down some sandy steps to swap handwritten vows on a secluded beach.
Afterwards, a waiter in a linen suit served cocktails on a balcony before the newlyweds released paper lanterns into the night sky.
It was a beautiful, personal, emotional, Pinterest-perfect celebration, and I’m thrilled my sister has found a guy worthy of her.
But I’m also a little sad – because she and my now-brother-in-law eloped, and this wedding took place on the coast of Spain.
That’s about 15,000 kilometres away from both families — and from me, the sister who’s helped the bride plan her nuptials since we watched Ariel’s wedding to Prince Eric on The Little Mermaid together and — you guessed it — pledged to make one another Maid of Honour one day.
I held up my end of the deal: she held up my train as I walked down the aisle and she posed in all the goofy, blurred-around-the-edges photos now sitting in a book on my coffee table.
And now I can’t shake the thought that I should have done the same for her. I feel heartbroken and — I’ll be honest, the tiniest bit cheated — that I wasn’t given that chance.
Okay, hold your outraged “this isn’t about you” comments and hear me out — because I’m well aware marriage centres around two people, and that their preference matters most.