Three months before my wedding, the world came crashing down. My fiancé, Mike, posted a picture on his Instagram. It wasn't of us. It was his marriage certificate, side-by-side with a photo of my stepsister, Della, cradling her pregnant belly. His caption read: Legally welcoming our little one into the world. Della commented with a single shy-face emoji. My own mother liked the post. Then she commented, I’ll watch the baby for you. You two just enjoy your time together. I couldn't help myself. I typed a single question mark. A second later, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Mike. His voice, once a comfort, was a torrent of accusations. "She's just 'borrowing' me for a year, Clara! The baby will be born, and then I'm all yours again." "Don't be so petty," he continued, his tone sharp. "My mom agrees. She always said you should have a son before we make it official anyway. This works out perfectly. We have the wedding first, and you get your certificate later. It's fine." A cold numbness spread through me. "Okay," I whispered, then hung up. I methodically went through my social media, deleting every trace of him, every happy memory now tainted. Then, I posted something new. Need a groom. Any takers? 1 Mike was the first to reply. Mike: Are you out of your goddamn mind, Clara? I marry her for a technicality, and you pull this stunt? Did you really think a pathetic post like this would make me jealous? That’s hilarious. I’m warning you, stop making trouble, and leave Della out of it. Della’s comment appeared right below his. Della: Sis, Mike just wants our baby to have a proper name. I’m not trying to steal him. When you and he get married, my child can even call you Mom. Then came my mother. Mom: You’re being so ungrateful. You get a child without the pain of childbirth, and Della is making it happen for you. The least you could do is thank her. A flood of comments from Mike's buddies followed, each one a jab to the ribs. You and Della are sisters, right? Doesn't matter who Mike marries, it's all in the family! How about Della gets him Mon-Weds-Fri, and you get Tues-Thurs-Sat? They all thought it was a riot, their laughing emojis mocking my pain. I stared at the screen for a long time, a bitter, acidic feeling rising in my throat until it stung my eyes. Tears I couldn't hold back began to fall, splattering onto my phone. They were the ones in the wrong. And yet, here they were, shamelessly blaming me. How pathetic. These people weren't worth a single one of my tears. I wiped my eyes fiercely. Amidst the chaos of the comment section, one stood out, a calm island in a sea of insanity. It was from Liam. Can I be your groom? Liam and I grew up together. After college, I’d stayed in the city while he went abroad for his master's. The day I started dating Mike, Liam had respectfully distanced himself. It had been years since we’d really talked. As I was still processing his comment, my phone rang. It was him. "Clara," his voice was steady, warm. "I've been in love with you for a long time." He didn't wait for me to respond. "You know I've never liked your stepsister, so there will be no drama there. I don't have a messy circle of friends, and I've spent the last few years building my career. There are no ex-girlfriends in the picture." A notification popped up on my screen. A legal document. I opened it. It was a contract, transferring all his assets and company shares into my name. My breath hitched. "Clara," he said, and for the first time, I heard a tremor of vulnerability in his voice. "This is my entire commitment. It's all I have to offer. Will you give me a chance?" A familiar ache settled in my chest. I remembered us as kids. Our teacher had given him two pieces of his favorite candy as a reward. He had looked at them, his mouth watering, but he hadn't eaten a single one. He’d saved both for me. He had always given me everything. My voice was thick with emotion. "Yes." Love had proven to be a ghost, a phantom I’d chased only to be left wounded and bleeding. I had been ready to give up, to accept that I would be alone. But my grandmother’s dying wish was to see me married, to know there was someone in the world who would have my back. Mike was not that man. But Liam… if my groom was Liam, I knew my grandmother would rest easy. His voice bloomed with pure joy. "I'll wrap things up here. I'll be back to marry you in two weeks." He paused, his tone turning almost pleading. "Clara, you'll wait for me, won't you? You won't change your mind?" That hint of childlike vulnerability reminded me of the time I’d promised to be his bride when we grew up. "I will," I promised, a sudden urge to cry washing over me—not from sadness, but from a profound sense of relief. "Liam," I whispered, "pinky swear." 2 After the call, my bedroom door swung open. It was my mother. "Where is that sapphire necklace your father left you?" I remained silent. Her brow furrowed in annoyance. "What's with the attitude? Your sister thinks it's pretty and wants to wear it for a few days. Just get it. Don't be so childish!" Della clung to our mother’s arm, her face a mask of disappointment. "It's okay, Mom. I know she's never really seen me as a sister. If she doesn't want to, I won't force her." "She wouldn't dare!" my mother snapped, turning her glare on me. "That necklace belonged to my husband—your father. As of today, it’s yours, Della." She looked back at me, her voice hard as steel. "If you don't hand it over, don't blame me for having your room searched." I stared at her, a bitter smile twisting my lips. It felt more like a grimace. The gentle, loving mother from my memories had vanished, replaced by this harsh, scolding stranger. But it didn't matter anymore. I was leaving this place for good. There was no point in another meaningless fight. Wordlessly, I retrieved the velvet box, opened it, and handed her the necklace. A satisfied smile spread across her face. "That's my girl. Della is your little sister. You should always give her the best of everything." After Mom left, Della fastened the sapphire clasp around her neck, admiring her reflection in my vanity mirror. "Don't blame Mom for favoring me, sis. Honestly, this necklace looks much better on me anyway." She smirked. "Just like Mike looks better as my boyfriend." Her eyes met mine in the reflection. "Some things are just meant to be mine. No one else can ever have them." I said nothing, watching her pathetic victory dance. With people like her, any reaction was fuel for the fire. Indifference was the only weapon. I grabbed my purse, walked past her as if she were thin air, and headed for the stairs. "Ah! Sis, why did you push me—" Della suddenly lurched in front of me, feigning a push and stumbling backward toward the top of the staircase. As much as I loathed her, my instincts kicked in. I reached out to grab her arm. It was a twenty-step drop; this was no joke. "Clara, you venomous bitch!" A hand slapped mine away from Della’s arm with brutal force. My hand slammed against the wooden banister with a sickening crack. A wave of white-hot pain shot up my arm, and I broke out in a cold sweat. "Mike, you came just in time! I was so scared, I…" Della sobbed, burying herself in Mike’s arms, her face a mess of tears and fabricated terror. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here now," Mike murmured, stroking her hair. "I won't let anyone hurt you." I looked down at my hand, already swelling and turning a bruised, angry purple. Then I looked at Della, who hadn't suffered so much as a scratch, being held and comforted as if she were made of glass. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow. The boy who had once promised to cherish me forever, the man I was supposed to marry in three short months… how had his heart turned so cold, so fast? 3 Once Della was calm, Mike’s gaze, dark and menacing, fell on me. "I know you're upset that I married her and we're having a baby behind your back. You can take it out on me, I get it. I should have told you." He took a step closer. "But you do not get to hurt Della. Her health is fragile. She’s been through enough." His voice rose with indignation. "All she did was ask me for a chance to be a mother. Is that so wrong? Why should she have to suffer your anger?" He pointed a shaking finger at me. "You are going to apologize to her. Right now." My whole body trembled with a rage I could barely contain. "And what did I do wrong?" I hissed. "Tell me, Mike, what exactly did I do wrong?" He stared into my blazing eyes and faltered for a second. "It's okay, Mike, really," Della sniffled from the safety of his arms. "Even though I almost fell to my death… I don't blame my sister. I don't need an apology." She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "You and Clara still have to get married. I don't want you fighting because of me." Mike sighed, his expression softening as he looked at her. "Della, you're too good. It's heartbreaking sometimes." He turned back to me, his eyes cold again. "You're just jealous of her. You can't stand to see her happy." He paused. "Fine. Della is speaking up for you, so if you don't want to apologize, you don't have to. But if you ever try to hurt her again, I swear, I won't be so lenient." He scooped Della into his arms and, just before leaving, shot me one last look of utter disappointment. "You can't even compare to your sister." The silence of the living room pressed in on me. I watched the dead leaves drift past the window, then sank to the floor, buried my face in my hands, and finally let myself sob. One last time. This was the last time I would ever cry for Mike. That afternoon, he posted again. A nine-photo grid of our future home, the one we had picked out together. Each picture showed a different corner, a different room. The caption read: Every room, every piece of furniture, every little detail, all chosen with love to give my baby a warm and happy home. The comments poured in. Congrats, Mike! A baby on the way! So you and Clara are having a baby! Wonderful news! Clara is so lucky to have a husband like you! I'm so jealous! I wouldn't miss your wedding in three months for a billion-dollar deal! As the congratulations flowed, Della dropped a bomb in the comments. Oh, everyone, don't get the wrong idea. This isn't Mike's marital home. It's my house. An awkward silence fell over the comment section. I was the one to break it. Three's a crowd. I'm out. Wishing you two happiness. Then, without a second thought, I blocked both of them. My phone rang almost immediately. It was Mike. "Clara, have you lost your mind?" "I'm perfectly sane," I said, my voice flat. "That comment you left—you're deliberately trying to make Della look bad," he seethed. "You just had to paint her as a homewrecker, didn't you? Is that what makes you happy? Keep slandering her, and this wedding is off!" His cruel words washed over me, but I felt nothing. The part of me that cared was already dead. "Mike," I said, my voice eerily calm. "What on earth makes you think I'd still want your sloppy seconds?" 4 I hung up. The phrase "sloppy seconds" must have struck a nerve. He called again, and again, and again. When I didn't answer, he bombarded me with texts. I ignored them all. In ten days, I was going to marry Liam. These people were about to become ghosts from a past life. I had intended to spend my remaining time here in peace, but Della shattered that illusion when she smashed my father's urn. His ashes spilled across the floor. She felt no remorse. Instead, she let her cat urinate on them. Then she looked at me, a triumphant smirk on her face. "Look, sis. Your dad makes great kitty litter!" In that instant, every ounce of grief and suppressed rage inside me exploded. I grabbed the baseball bat from behind the door and swung it at her with all my might. It connected with a solid thud. She shrieked, her face turning sheet-white as she scrambled away. "Clara! Have you completely lost it? How dare you hit your sister!" My mother’s voice was Della’s salvation. She scurried behind her, hiding like a frightened child. "Mom, I'm scared," she sobbed. "She's trying to kill me!" My mother shielded Della like a hen protecting her chick, her fury directed entirely at me. "I've let your bullying slide, thinking it was just petty squabbles, but this is too much!" She was my mother, yet she always stood against me, defending a girl with no blood relation to her. There was no greater sorrow. Tears blurred my vision. "She broke Dad's urn!" I screamed, my voice raw. "That was Dad! My dad! Why? Why?" Why, after I had already yielded so much, did they have to destroy the one tangible memory I had left of him? Why did my own mother not love me? Della dropped to her knees dramatically. "Mom, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, I swear! If Clara can't forgive me, then... then I might as well just die!" she wailed. "Della, you stop this—" SMACK! My mother's hand cracked across my face before I could finish my sentence. "Enough!" she shrieked. "It's just ashes! He's already dead. Is a pile of ash more important than a living person?" Her final words hung in the air, cold and sharp. "If you bother Della again, you can get out."
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