…He held up my phone — which I’d handed him earlier to keep him distracted — and showed me what was on the screen.
It was a photo. A blurry one, but unmistakable.
**My husband. At a beach resort. Arm around another woman.**
And not just any woman — **my sister.**
The bride.
My blood turned to ice.
He must’ve forgotten to disable location tagging. The photo had just been posted to the story of someone I didn’t even know, probably a friend of the woman. And there, plain as day, was the time stamp: **”8 minutes ago.”**
I couldn’t breathe.
I looked up at the altar. My sister was glowing, sure. But now it looked artificial. Like a mask.
I whispered to my son, “Let’s go.”
We slipped out quietly. My heels echoed down the hallway as we rushed to the parking lot.
In the car, my son asked, “Is Auntie in trouble?”
I gripped the wheel. “Not yet,” I said. “But she’s about to be.”
I drove straight to the resort tagged in the story. It was just 30 minutes away — they probably thought no one would find out until it was too late. That I’d be too distracted playing the supportive sister.
But not today.
I arrived to find them on the patio, sipping drinks, laughing. My sister was still in her getting-ready robe. My husband wore a T-shirt and shorts — so much for that “urgent work emergency.”
They both froze when they saw me.
“Oh my God, what are you doing here?” my sister stammered.
My husband stood, like he was about to give a speech. “It’s not what it looks like—”
“Then explain it,” I snapped. “Explain skipping your own nephew’s flower ceremony for bottomless margaritas and whatever *this* is.” I gestured between them.
Neither said a word.
So I took out my phone and showed them the photo.
“I guess you two didn’t plan for the part where people still use social media.”
Then I turned to my sister. “You know, I did *everything* for your wedding. Everything. You cried over peonies, and I found them. And this is what you were doing behind my back?”
“I didn’t mean to fall for him,” she whispered.
“I didn’t mean to raise your wedding costs, either,” I said, walking away. “But don’t worry — you’ll pay for that part too.”
And with that, I walked to my car, my son quietly holding my hand.
As I buckled him in, he looked at me and said, “Mom… are you mad?”
I smiled through tears. “No, sweetheart. I’m just finally done being nice.”
