Call dropped. Blood roaring. One thought crystallized: if I’m pathetic for caring, my brother and his new wife are about to crash‑land without my net.
Last weekend, while grabbing coffee at my usual spot, my phone buzzed with a notification. I opened Instagram out of habit and froze. There was my brother, Dylan Brooks—sharp in a black tux—around a woman in a flowing white gown, Hailey Grant, the influencer he’d started dating six months ago. The photo showed them mid‑kiss under string lights, her ring sparkling. Caption read, “The most perfect day of my life with my forever.”
My stomach dropped. No heads‑up, no text, nothing. I’d known they were serious, but marriage? Without a word to me? I set the mug down hard, screen still glowing. I scrolled through the comments—friends congratulating, heart emojis everywhere. One post linked to a full album: ceremony shots, vows, cake cutting. All of it happened yesterday, apparently, at some rooftop venue downtown.
I hit call—straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Third, fourth—same. By the seventh, my thumb hovered then pressed. This time it rang twice before connecting. A woman’s voice answered, crisp and annoyed, on speaker.
“What now?”
“Put my brother on,” I said, keeping my tone even.
Hailey laughed, short and sharp. “Oh, it’s you. Listen, Kayla—Dylan’s busy. We just got back from the reception, and he doesn’t need you stirring drama.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Stirring? I didn’t even know there was a wedding. Why wasn’t I told?”
Silence for a beat. Then her voice turned icy. “Because I didn’t want you there. You hover over him like he’s still a kid—always inserting yourself, paying for everything to keep control. It’s pathetic, honestly. Dylan agrees—he’s tired of it.”
My breath caught. “He said that?”
Another pause. Then my brother’s voice in the background—muffled but clear. “Hailey, give me the phone.”
She didn’t. Instead, she raised her volume. “See? Even now you’re demanding. We’re married, Kayla. Adults. We don’t need your approval or your money anymore.”
I leaned against the counter, voice low. “The condo you’re probably unpacking in right now? That’s on my dime—monthly payment straight from my account. And the Europe study fund, thirty‑five grand I saved for his post‑grad trip? That’s mine, too.”