A week before my wedding, my pregnant sister Lily showed up unannounced, bags in hand, claiming she had nowhere to go. I was already drowning in wedding stress, but I couldn’t turn her away. Daniel, my fiancé, wasn’t happy about her staying. He warned it would bring chaos, especially since they’d never liked each other.
The days that followed were tense. Lily left her things everywhere, ate my prepped meals, and spent hours on the couch. One evening, I overheard her and Daniel arguing about money. When I later checked our honeymoon account, the balance was zero — and I found a check stub with Daniel’s name in her room, along with a mysterious medical envelope.
I confronted them both that night. Lily blurted out that Daniel was the father of her baby and had given her the money for support. My heart pounded, but I pulled out the envelope — a DNA test proving he wasn’t the father. Daniel’s face fell as he realized she’d lied to him too, but the damage was already done.
I told them both to get out of my house. Daniel tried to explain, saying he’d only wanted to protect me, but I wasn’t interested in excuses. I slipped the ring off my finger, tossed it to him, and shut the door. My wedding was off, but I knew I’d made the right choice — I was choosing myself.