It was too late.
I lost Emma in a cold, white hospital room, with no one by my side.
Oliver never showed. Not even a call. Judy texted me once: “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
That was it. That was all my sister had to say.
A few months later, they decided to get married, with a baby on the way. My parents paid for the wedding, a fancy 200-guest affair at the nicest place in town. They said, “The child needs a father,” and “It’s time to move on.”
They sent me an invitation. Like I was a coworker or a distant cousin. I remember holding it in my hands, my name printed in that fake gold cursive.
I didn’t go. I couldn’t go.
That night, I stayed in. I wore Oliver’s old hoodie and watched terrible romantic comedies. The kind where everyone ends up happy and in love by the end. I curled up with a bottle of wine and some popcorn, trying not to picture Judy walking down the aisle in a dress I’d helped her pick out once during a random girl’s day, before everything went sideways.
Around 9:30 p.m., my phone buzzed.
It was Misty.
Her voice was shaking, but she was laughing in a breathless way that immediately made me sit up.
“Lucy,” she said, half whispering, half shouting, “you will not believe what just happened. Get dressed. Jeans, sweater, anything. Drive to the restaurant. You do not want to miss this.”
I paused, stunned.
“What are you talking about?”
She was already hanging up.
“Just trust me,” she said. “Get here. Now.”
I stared at my phone for a few seconds after Misty hung up. My thumb hovered over the screen, like maybe she’d call back and say she was kidding.
She didn’t.
Instead, I sat there listening to the silence in my apartment, interrupted only by the distant hum of cars outside and the soft buzz of the dishwasher. A part of me wanted to ignore it all. I’d already been dragged through enough pain, and honestly, I didn’t think I had it in me to witness even more.
But something about Misty’s voice stayed with me. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even sympathy. It was something else, something sharp and alive, like she had just watched a matchstick drop into gasoline.
And whatever that something was… I wanted to see it for myself.
Ten minutes later, I was driving across town, heart pounding the whole way.
When I pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, I immediately knew something was off. People were gathered in clumps outside the entrance, dressed in suits and gowns, arms crossed, phones out, whispering and wide-eyed. One woman in a lilac dress actually gasped when she saw me walking up the sidewalk.
Inside, the air was heavy. Everyone was talking in hushed voices. Some guests were craning their necks toward the front of the hall, where the main commotion seemed to be happening.
And there they were.
Judy, standing near the floral archway, had her white wedding gown absolutely soaked in what looked like blood. Her hair stuck to her shoulders. Oliver was beside her, trying to calm her down, his tux completely ruined and dripping red.
For one terrifying second, I thought something violent had happened. My stomach twisted.
But then the smell hit me.
It wasn’t blood. It was paint. Thick, sticky red paint that clung to the floor, the tablecloths, and the expensive white roses they’d probably paid a fortune for.
I was frozen in the doorway, unsure of what I’d just walked into, when I spotted Misty near the back.
She looked like she was going to explode from trying to hold in her laughter.
“Finally,” she whispered, grabbing my wrist. “You made it. Come on.”
“What happened?” I asked, still dazed.
She bit her lip and tugged me toward the corner.
“You need to see it yourself,” she said, already pulling her phone out of her purse. “I got the whole thing. Sit.”
We huddled against the back wall, away from the chaos, and she tapped play.
The video started right around the toasts. Judy was dabbing her eyes with a napkin, guests raising glasses, Oliver beaming like the world’s most punchable golden retriever. Then, Lizzie stood up.
I blinked at the screen.
Lizzie. The calm one. The “fix-it” sister. The one who hadn’t come to a single family gathering in almost a year.
