The wedding hall sparkled, but all I could focus on was the table number in my hand: Table 12. The singles’ table. The reject table.
The place where my sister, Lydia, had strategically placed me to ensure everyone knew her older sister, Hannah, was still alone. Lydia and I had never been close, but the competition had reached a toxic level since she got engaged to Richard, a successful investment banker. She’d made it her mission to remind me that I was 32 and single.
“Maybe you should try dating apps again,” she’d say with fake concern. “Time is running out, Hannah.” Our mother, Diane, would nod, while our father, Adam, changed the subject. Lydia seemed to take genuine pleasure in my romantic failures, as if my single status validated her happiness.
The morning of her wedding, Lydia called with “sisterly advice.” “Hannah, honey, I know today might be hard for you,” she’d chirped, “seeing everyone so happy and in love. Just try not to look too miserable in the photos, okay?”
That should have been my first warning. When I arrived at the reception, wearing a beautiful navy dress, Lydia’s maid of honor, Marion, approached me with a clipboard and a smile that promised bad news.
“Oh, Hannah, let me show you to your table.” Table 12 was tucked in the back corner, near the kitchen doors. The other guests there were Lydia’s single colleagues, who barely acknowledged me, and our elderly Great Aunt Janet, who spent the evening complaining about the music and asking if I’d considered lowering my standards. The real humiliation began during the family introductions.
Lydia paraded me around like a cautionary tale. She pulled me toward a group of Richard’s sophisticated relatives. “And this is my sister, Hannah,” Lydia announced, her arm around Richard like she was claiming territory.
“She’s our little career woman, still focusing on work instead of finding someone special.”
The group smiled politely as heat crept up my neck. Mrs. Wellington, Richard’s aunt, looked me up and down with obvious pity.
“Oh dear, don’t worry,” she said, patting my arm. “There’s someone for everyone. Have you tried church groups?”
Lydia laughed—not a kind laugh, but one of enjoyment at my discomfort.
“Hannah’s very independent, aren’t you, sis?” The way she said “independent” made it sound like a failing. “I just haven’t found the right person yet,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Well, you can’t wait forever,” Richard’s mother, Margaret, chimed in.
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