Hi, I’m Darly. I was folding wedding favors at 2 a.m., alone in my apartment, thinking maybe, just maybe, they’d see me this time. But the next morning, I discovered $2,400 was missing from my account. And at the wedding I’d planned, paid for, and never received a thank you, my mother just smiled smugly. She looked me in the eye as if nothing had happened.
How do you cope with a betrayal that bears your last name? And worse yet, how long had they been erasing me from their memory before I realized it?
The morning air in Tacoma was crisp, the kind that heralded the definitive change of season. I parked two blocks from the Langley Park Event Hall because, unsurprisingly, the family parking spaces were already taken. I didn’t even bother asking why. I knew by now.
Inside the venue, everything was bustling: florists were wheeling carts of hydrangeas, waiters were bustling with bouquets of napkins, the wedding planner’s assistant was already on her third coffee, and there I was, unlisted on any official staff list, yet somehow I was the one everyone turned to for answers. “Darly, where’s the welcome sign?” “Darly, the number of chairs doesn’t match the guest list.” “Darly, have you confirmed the DJ?”
A week earlier, in our family chat, Mom had left a voicemail. No discussion, no questions: “Darly, you’ll take care of all the pre-wedding logistics, obviously.” That was it. No one had said anything, not even Ailen. I’d replied nonchalantly: “Sure, I’ll help where I can.” And the conversation continued as if I’d said nothing.
And here I was, sleeves rolled up, checking lists I hadn’t made, but was being asked to memorize. Ailen walked past me, wrapped in a silk robe, all pink and champagne. “You’re a savior,” she said vaguely, without looking at me directly. There was no need. It was easier not to see who was cleaning behind me.
As I was giving the flower vendor directions on how to rearrange the floral arch—a task I hadn’t agreed to, but had to do anyway—a guest lightly touched my shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you part of the vendor team? I’m looking for the restroom.” I stopped, my mouth hanging open before I could stop myself. No, I wasn’t part of the team. She smiled politely and walked away, oblivious to everything.
My dark blue pants and white blouse had seemed appropriate when I left home. Now they made me look like just another member of staff. I saw my reflection in the glass door: the bun, the clipboard. It wasn’t a dress. It was a uniform, and no one had told me I was wearing it.
By midmorning, I was at the welcome table, setting up name tags and place cards. The table read “Ailen and Russell’s Special Day” in gold. My name was nowhere to be found. I’d designed the logo myself after work one evening, fiddling with Canva while reheating frozen lasagna.
Two weeks earlier, I’d stayed up past midnight printing those tickets because Mom’s printer was out of ink and she didn’t want to go to Office Depot. When I asked if anyone else could help, she laughed. “You’re good with paper, honey. It’s your forte.” She wasn’t, but saying no wasn’t an option either.
I folded the linen napkins, replaced the candles, and corrected a typo on the Hendersons’ place card. Somehow, I had become the last line of defense against everyone’s oversights. Every time I turned around, someone needed something, and every time I provided it without being seen.
“Darly, could you take these baskets to the hotel reception?” “Darly, do you have any spare pins for the daggers?” I had them. I always had them. My bag was a travel emergency kit for problems I didn’t cause, but were expected to solve.
I met my mother across the room, impeccably dressed, smiling with a kind of pride I’d never seen directed at me. She was talking to Alien’s future in-laws, gesturing elegantly, her voice calm and composed.
“It’s really incredible,” said one of the women.
Marjorie touched her chest with feigned humility. “Thank you. I’ve done a lot behind the scenes.”
“Backstage.” I looked at the guest list again. One card was missing. Mine. There was no assigned seat for me. I found it tucked to the side, near the service exit, among the speaker wires. Technically, it was still in the family if you counted the second cousins and the divorced uncles who didn’t remember my birthday.
I bent down to arrange the centerpieces one last time, my knees aching from hours of standing. My back ached, my hands were dry from folding, gluing, and tying. As I placed the last candle in its place, a voice behind me said what I’d always known to be true: “He’s just here to make sure the food arrives on time.”
I don’t think I turned around immediately, but I saw Ailen’s face in the mirror, smiling politely, without correcting them, without even blinking. It was then that I realized I wasn’t a guest at my sister’s wedding. I was an unpaid worker.
The bridal suite smelled of hairspray, mimosas, and forced smiles. I sat at the corner of the long vanity table, silently scrolling through the to-do list on my phone, checking off items no one had asked me to do but I’d completed anyway. Around me, Ailen and her bridesmaids giggled over makeup palettes and false eyelashes, their voices rising and falling in small bursts of excitement.
Russell poked his head in with a gentle knock. “Brunch’s ready, girls.” A chorus of “hurrahs!” followed, and one by one they filed out, leaving a trail of perfume and half-opened garment bags in their wake. I followed last, not out of politeness, but simply because I didn’t want to fight for a seat anymore.
The buffet in the private dining room was splendid: Kiwi, smoked salmon, imported cheeses, berries sliced into perfect spirals. Marjgerie stood in the center of it all, instructing a waiter to move a fruit bowl exactly 10 centimeters. A classic.
CONTINUE READING…>>
ADVERTISEMENT
ADVERTISEMENT
