I stayed home the night my ex-husband married my sister. I told myself it was self-preservation—that I didn’t need to witness the final chapter of a story that had already broken me. A year earlier, my life had felt quietly perfect: steady work, simple routines, and a marriage built on comfort and trust. I was the dependable one in my family, the sister who always showed up, the one who held things together. When I met Oliver, it felt like someone had finally chosen me. We built a calm, ordinary life—shared jokes, lazy weekends, small gestures that made love feel safe. We were even planning for a baby, imagining a future that felt solid and certain

That certainty vanished in one conversation. Oliver told me he was leaving— not just for someone else, but for my own sister, Judy. What followed was a blur of shock, heartbreak, and a kind of grief I didn’t yet have words for. The stress of it all took a toll on me, and I experienced a deeply personal loss that left me feeling empty and unseen. While I was trying to survive and heal, my family urged everyone to “move forward.” Months later, they announced a wedding. I received an invitation with my name written neatly across the front, as if distance and formality could erase what had happened. I declined. That night, I stayed home in an old hoodie, trying to distract myself with movies and silence.