Gabby, Eight Months Pregnant, Faces a Shocking Family Demand on Her Sister’s Wedding Day
Gabby, eight months pregnant, had been planning to attend her sister’s lavish wedding. Instead, she’s faced with an outrageous “family duty” that forces her to choose between loyalty and self-respect.
When I tell people I’m eight months pregnant, their eyes widen, they soften, and say I must be “exhausted.” They have no idea. I love feeling my baby kick, but the pressure on my joints makes me feel decades older. And somehow, managing my sister Tara is more exhausting than the pregnancy itself.
Tara’s always been the center of attention. Even as a child, she didn’t ask—she told. You just went along to avoid her fury.
She dropped the bombshell while I was sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, gluing fake peonies onto centerpiece bases. She smoothed her wedding planner with her perfect nails and announced, “All our guests will get complimentary transportation. Gabby, make it look elegant.”
My fingers were cold, glue gun warm, and a faint scent of melting plastic filled the room. I looked up slowly.
“Okay, Tara,” I said, trying to stay calm. “But how? You told me food blew your budget, that’s why we’re using fake flowers.”
She didn’t even glance at me.
“Well, Gabrielle,” she said, as if it were obvious, “your husband owns a transportation business. This should be easy for him. A no-brainer.”
I stared. Was she serious? She sounded so casual, like she had already made the decision for us.
“You haven’t spoken to Timothy,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “He hasn’t mentioned this at all.”
“You can talk to him,” she waved dismissively. “He listens to you.”
“That’s not the point.”
Tara finally looked up, irritation flashing across her face, as though I was the unreasonable one.
“Gabby, it’s your family’s business. Why not help your sister on the most important day of her life?”
I pushed myself off the floor with effort, my baby kicking in protest.
“You expect me to drive, Tara?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“You’re pregnant—so you’ll be sober,” she said flatly. “You won’t be dancing all night.”
It felt like something crushed my chest. Not from the baby—just from the sheer absurdity.
“Tara, I’ll be nearly nine months pregnant at your wedding. You want me to drive drunk strangers at midnight?”
“They’re not strangers,” she snapped. “They’re my friends. Wealthy ones. Classy and glamorous—like my theme.”
Tara’s always cared more about image than feelings. She faked elegance to mask how transactional she really is.
I didn’t argue further. Even though I stayed quiet, my heart was racing and my hands trembled. I texted Timothy:
“Can you come get me? Please?”
His response was instant: “Already on my way. Tacos for you.”
Ten minutes later, he arrived. My back ached from sitting on the floor, and I struggled to stand. Tara barely looked up from her laptop.
“Oh, Gabby?” she called as I reached the door. “Thank Timothy in advance, will you? I know he’ll come through. Family always does.”
In the car, between bites of taco, I told Timothy everything. I expected anger—at least a sigh.
He stayed calm, the kind of calm that comes from having made a decision.
“She already printed the wedding programs,” I added. “They say: ‘Complimentary luxury transportation provided by the bride’s sister and brother-in-law, courtesy of their company.’”
He smiled slightly and touched my leg. “Don’t worry, Gabby. Tara will get what she wanted—just not how she expected.”
The wedding, held at a lavish vineyard upstate, was pure extravagance—fifteen chandeliers, a flown-in string quartet, everything dripping with ‘understated elegance.’
Wearing a blue maternity dress and sensible flats, I felt more like a prop than a guest.
Timothy’s company delivered five spotless luxury cars with professional, polished drivers. Guests were impressed—just as Tara hoped.
Before the ceremony, she hugged me quickly with cold arms. “You didn’t let me down, Gabby,” she whispered. “I wasn’t sure you would—with pregnancy brain and all.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, smiling.
The ceremony was flawless beneath a giant floral arch. Everyone cried on cue. Cameras flashed nonstop.
The reception was loud and glittering. My baby and I especially enjoyed the dessert table.
But the transportation? That was the main event.
Timothy had made it clear: we wouldn’t be driving. Our team would handle everything.
Each guest was treated like royalty—doors opened, names confirmed, routes clarified. And at drop-off?
“That’ll be $50,” the drivers would say. “The bride mentioned her guests are classy enough to pay. Card or cash?”
Some laughed, thinking it was a joke. Others looked horrified.
“But Tara said it was free!”
“Apologies,” the driver replied. “We were told otherwise.”
By midnight, Tara’s phone was in chaos. Guests called, texted, and cornered her at the bar.
She kept posing in her gown, pretending not to notice.
After the guests had cleared out and the lights dimmed, Tara stormed over.
“Gabby,” she barked, makeup smeared, bouquet crushed. “What the hell happened?”
“What do you mean?” I asked innocently.
“Everyone was charged! You said Timothy would handle it!”
“He did,” I replied. “Just like he does with any client.”
“You embarrassed me!” she hissed. “I printed that it was free, Gabby. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes,” I said. “You printed it. Without asking us.”
She clutched her flowers like she might hurl them.
“Where’s the money?” she demanded.
“In the business account,” I said. “Like any transaction.”
“I’m your sister!” she screamed. “This was your family duty!”
Timothy rested a steadying hand on my back. “I’ve got you, babe.”
I looked her straight in the eye. “Your wealthy friends, Tara. I figured they’d pay with class.”
She gaped at me as we walked away.
The next day she called. I didn’t pick up. Her voicemail was filled with angry, tearful accusations.
Two days later, a text: “You ruined my wedding, Gabrielle. I’ll never forgive you.”
I stared at it, deleted it, and set the phone down.
Three days after my OB appointment, with swollen feet and sour candy resting on my belly, I sat peacefully in our van. The doctor said the baby was perfect—head down, strong heartbeat, ready for a natural birth.
“Keeping the gender a surprise?” she asked.
“We are,” Timothy smiled. “Best surprise there is.”
She grinned. “Love that.”
Just a few more weeks until we’d meet our baby.
“Ice cream?” Timothy asked, glancing over.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He helped me out of the van and into our favorite family-run soft-serve spot.
“I still can’t believe Tara expected your third trimester to be a taxi shift,” he said.
“She thought she was offering me an honor,” I laughed. “Midnight rides for drunk strangers while swollen and exhausted.”
“The next time she asks for a favor,” he said, “we’ll be fully booked—with diaper changes and naps.”
We shared two scoops—mint chip for him, strawberry cheesecake for me—on a shady bench outside.
“This is perfect,” I whispered, licking the cone.
“You okay?” Timothy asked, eyes gentle.
“I think so.”
“We did the right thing,” he said, leaning his head against mine.
“I know.”
“She’ll get over it,” he said.
“Or she won’t,” I replied. “And that’s fine. Some people don’t grow.”
He grinned. “You don’t seem too upset about it.”
I smiled, feeling lighter than I had in years.
“For the first time in forever… I’m not.”
Thank goodness this happened before the baby came. I won’t make space for selfishness once they’re here.
Setting boundaries at first feels wrong—like betraying someone who taught you love means sacrifice.
But in time, boundaries feel like breath itself.
I’m done orbiting someone who never once asked to be pulled in.
Our baby deserves a mother who can love without losing herself.
Tara can keep her tantrums. We’ve got a better title now—Mom and Dad.