Gabby, eight months pregnant, plans to attend her sister’s opulent wedding. Instead, she receives an outlandish “family duty” that tests her. Gabby must choose loyalty or self-respect on the big day.

People gasp, soften their features, and say I must be “exhausted” when I tell them I’m eight months pregnant.

Their knowledge is limited. I adore feeling my baby kick, but the weight is aging my joints. However, orbiting my sister Tara is easier than pregnancy.

People have always revolved around Tara. As a child, she helped rather than asked. Not wanting to upset her, you agreed to escape her wrath.

She dropped her bombshell when I was cross-legged on her living room floor putting fake peonies on centerpiece bases.

She smoothed her planner with manicured nails and announced free transportation for all wedding guests. Gabby, make it chic.

Cold fingertips, heated glue gun, slight smell of burnt plastic. I looked up.

“Okay, Tara,” I said softly. “But how? You told me food broke your budget. So we use fake flowers.”

She didn’t look up from her couch.

“Well, Gabrielle,” she continued, evidently, “your husband’s transportation business has cars. This is simple for him. Kids’ play.”

I stared, wondering if I heard wrong. Her tone was too casual, like this was chosen without me.

“You haven’t talked to Timothy,” I answered, calmly despite the burning in my chest. “He said nothing.”

“You can talk to him, Gabby,” she waved. “He hears you.”

“Not the point.”

Tara looked up, angry, like I was the issue.

“It’s fine, Gabby. Your family’s business. Having cars and drivers, why not help your sister on her big day?

I pushed myself up, hands on carpet, baby kicking to fight the movement.

“You expect me to drive, Tara?” I asked knowing her response.

“You’re pregnant, so you’ll be the ‘sober’ one,” she remarked. “You won’t dance all night.”

My chest squeezed from suffocation, not the baby. Unable to breathe.

“Tara, I’ll be almost nine months pregnant on your wedding day. Want me to drive intoxicated strangers at midnight?

“They’re not strangers!” she interrupted, as if it solved things. I call them pals. Rich pals. Classic and glamorous are my goals.”

She was obsessed with appearances.

Tara always prioritized image before expense and sentiments. She pretended sophistication to hide her transactional nature.

I didn’t reply. Even though I tried to be calm, my heart raced and hands shook. Texted Timothy.

“Can you pick me up? Please?”

He immediately replied, “On my way, love. Tacos for you.”

Ten minutes later, he arrived. Back throbbing from floorwork, I stood disoriented. Tara scarcely looked up from her laptop.

“Oh, Gabby?” I heard her call at the door. “Thank Timothy beforehand. Know he’ll deliver. Family does that.”

I told Timothy everything over tacos in the car. Expected rage, maybe a sharp exhale.

He was peaceful—the kind of calm that comes with a decision.

“She printed the programs,” I said. They remark, ‘Complimentary luxury transportation by the bride’s sister and brother-in-law, courtesy of their company.’”

He drove silently and smiled as he touched my thigh.

Don’t worry, Gabby. Tara will receive her desired outcome, but not as expected.

Saturday night’s wedding at an extravagant upstate winery featured Tara’s “understated elegance,” with fifteen chandeliers and a string quartet flown in.

It demanded money before you left the automobile.

Comfortable in a blue maternity dress and flats, I took short breaths to relieve rib tightness. I felt like The Dutiful Sister—polished but invisible—rather than a visitor.

Timothy’s company supplied five shiny automobiles with calm, authoritative drivers. The guests were impressed, as Tara hoped.

Tara hugged me briefly before the ceremony, with chilly arms. “You didn’t let me down, Gabby!” she whispered. «I wasn’t sure you would, with pregnant brain»

“I wouldn’t miss it, Tara,” I smiled.

Perfect ceremony under extravagant flower arch. Mom and others cried on cue. Cameras clicked nonstop.

Loud reception with expensive linen napkins. My baby and I loved the deserts.

But the rides were the highlight. Timothy prevented us from driving. Our drivers managed everything.

Each guest was handled like royalty—doors opened, identities confirmed, routes explained. At their destination, drivers remarked, “That’ll be $50. The bride stated her guests are classy enough to pay. Card or cash.”

Some laughed, thinking it was a joke. People were confused. A woman held her pearls. Tara said free! Someone else may have driven me.”

Drivers grin. We were informed otherwise. Sorry about the confusion.”

By midnight, Tara’s phone was anarchy. Customers texted, called, and confronted her in the bar to ask why they were charged. She ignored the storm while posing in her stunning satin gown.

After guests left and fairy lights dimmed, Tara found me.

‘Gabby,’ she muttered, flowers smashed, cosmetics smudged. “What the hell is happening?”

“You mean what?” I asked innocently, tilting my head.

Everyone is charged! You said Timothy would handle it!”

“He did,” I said. Like a pro charging for a service.”

She yelled, “You embarrassed me!” I printed it for free, Gabby! Understand what that means?

I said “Yes, Tara.” “You printed it. Without our consent.”

She held her bouquet, jaw twitching, ready to throw.

“Gabby, where’s the money?” She demanded.

“In business,” I said. As with any client.”

“My sister!” She shrieked. “Your family duty!”

Timothy supported my back with his hand. I got you, babe.

“Your rich friends, Tara,” I added. I imagined they’d pay classily.”

Her mouth opened, speechless. Timothy held my arm as I left.

Next day, Tara called. I remained silent. Rage and tears filled her voicemail.

She texted two days later: “You destroyed my big day, Gabrielle. I’ll never forgive you.”

Staring at the screen, I thumbed erase and set the phone down.

Three days after my OB-GYN checkup, with swollen legs and sour candy on my belly, I felt calm in the van. The doctor declared the baby perfect, head down, heartbeat strong, and ready for natural birth.

“Keeping the gender a surprise?” she questioned.

“We are,” Timothy smiled. “Best surprise.”

She grinned, “Love that.”

A couple weeks until our baby arrived.

“Ice cream?” Looking over, Timothy asked.

I thought you’d never ask.

Toward our favorite family-owned soft waffle cone business.

“I can’t believe Tara tried to make your third trimester an Uber shift,” he added.

“She thought she was generous,” I laughed. “Offering me the ‘honor’ of driving drunk strangers at midnight on swollen feet.”

“Next time she wants a favor,” he added, “we’re booked with naps and feedings.”

He helped me like a baby in the shop. We ate two scoops—mint chip for him, strawberry cheesecake for me—on a shaded bench.

“This is perfect,” I said, taking a taste.

You okay? Soft-eyed Timothy asked.

“I think.”

He said, “We did the right thing,” putting his head on my shoulder.

“I know.”

“She’ll get over it,” he said.

“Or she won’t, Tim. That’s OK. Everyone matures.”

He grinned, “You don’t sound too upset.

Relief filled me as I grinned.

First time in forever, I’m not. Thank goodness that happened before the baby. Not for selfish individuals once they arrive.”

Boundaries are first disempowering. They feel guilty, like betraying someone who taught love requires sacrifice.

After too long, they’re like air—breathing freely.

I was tired of orbiting someone who never requested to be pulled in.

Our child deserves a mother who can love without losing herself.

Tara may maintain her tantrums and control. Mom and Dad are better titles for Timothy and me.