The invitation sat on my counter like a dare—thick cream card, rose-gold script: Sadie & Evan. On the back, a handwritten line: Nance—will you be my maid of honor? I laughed, surprised. Twelve years earlier, Sadie had made my high school graduation unforgettable by gluing bubblegum in my hair. We weren’t close, but maybe this was different.

At the bridal salon, Sadie twirled in her lace dress, radiant and glowing. For a moment, we were kids again—laughing, pretending. Then, the sharp humor returned: “Let’s find something for you that won’t make you look like a beached whale.”

Weeks passed. Plans, texts, softening. Then, the dress. The lavender gown I’d chosen—four sizes too large. Sadie’s cruel joke. I felt twelve again, small and overlooked.

But Aunt Marie had a secret—a second dress, perfect and true. I slipped into it and saw myself reflected: whole and deserving.

At the wedding, I gave a speech about our fraught past and fragile healing. Later, Sadie and I stood in a quiet hallway. She confessed jealousy and fear, apologized, and asked, “Can we start over?”

We laughed, cried, and held hands. On the dance floor, surrounded by family, we danced like girls in a living room tent city—finally, sisters again.

Inside my dress, Aunt Marie’s seamstress had stitched a tiny lavender heart and the words: You fit.