When I tell people I’m eight months pregnant, they usually react with a little gasp, wide eyes, and a sympathetic smile.
They assume I must be exhausted.
But they don’t even know the half of it. Yes, carrying this baby comes with all kinds of physical challenges, but that weight is nothing compared to being caught in my sister Tara’s gravitational pull.
Tara has always had a way of pulling people into her orbit. She doesn’t ask for help—she delegates.
Even as kids, she handed out tasks as if she were in charge, and somehow you’d just do it, knowing that resistance would only lead to drama.
I was on the floor of her living room, hot glue gun in hand, attaching fake peonies to centerpiece bases when she dropped her latest demand.
“I’m offering free transportation for all my wedding guests,” she said, flipping through her planner. “It’ll make everything look chic and put together.”
I paused, mid-glue. “That’s… ambitious, Tara. Didn’t you say your budget was maxed out? Hence the artificial flowers?”
She didn’t even glance at me. “Well, Gabby, since your husband owns a transportation business, it’ll be easy for him. No big deal.”
I blinked. Surely she was joking. But her tone made it clear she’d already decided.
“You haven’t talked to Timothy about this, have you?” I asked, doing my best to stay neutral.
“You can talk to him,” she waved it off. “He listens to you.”
I was trying to stay calm, but my patience was fraying.
“So… you’re expecting me, eight months pregnant help drive your tipsy guests around?”
“Well, yeah. You won’t be drinking. Plus, you’ll be sitting most of the time,” she replied as if that made it okay.
Something in me cracked. “Tara, I’ll be nearly nine months pregnant. And you want me to play chauffeur in the middle of the night?”
“They’re not strangers—they’re my friends,” she said, offended by my tone. “Rich ones. So it all needs to feel high-end.”
There it was again—her obsession with appearances.
Tara never cared about how things felt, only how they looked. Elegance over empathy, every time.
I didn’t respond. I texted my husband.
“Can you come get me? Now, please.”
He responded instantly: “Already on my way. Got tacos too.”
When he pulled up ten minutes later, I stood up slowly, back aching, and made my way out. Tara didn’t even look up from her laptop.
“Oh, and Gabby?” she called. “Tell Timothy thanks in advance. I know he’ll come through. That’s what family does.”
In the car, I told Timothy everything, between bites of taco. I expected him to be mad. But instead, he just nodded slowly.
“She printed it in the wedding program,” I said.
“‘Complimentary luxury transportation provided by the bride’s sister and brother-in-law.’ She didn’t even ask us.”
He reached over, squeezed my thigh gently, and smiled. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll give her exactly what she asked for—just not the way she imagines.”
The wedding venue was a vineyard dripping in chandeliers and imported musicians. Tara called it “tastefully understated,” but there was nothing subtle about it.
I wore a navy maternity dress and flats.
I was there as a guest in name, but I felt more like a well-dressed prop.
Timothy’s company dispatched five sleek black cars, polished to mirror-finish perfection. The drivers were in uniform, professional, polite. Guests were impressed. Tara’s illusion was intact.
I saw her briefly before the ceremony. She hugged me quickly and whispered, “Glad you came through, Gabby. Wasn’t sure you would—pregnancy brain and all.”
I smiled tightly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Everything went smoothly until the rides began. No way was Timothy letting me—or himself—drive. Instead, our drivers took over.
Each guest was treated like royalty. Names were confirmed, doors opened, destinations clarified. But upon drop-off, each heard the same line:
“That’ll be $50. Cash or card. The bride said her guests would be classy enough to contribute.”
Reactions varied—laughter, confusion, outrage. A few pulled Tara aside during the reception, but she was too busy posing in her second dress to care.
By the time the fairy lights began to flicker and the last glasses clinked, Tara finally found me.
“Gabby,” she hissed. “What is happening?! People are saying they were charged!”
I played innocent. “That’s strange. We provided professional service, like you asked.”
“You told me Timothy would handle it!”
“He did. Like a pro. This is what we charge our clients.”
“You embarrassed me!” she snapped. “I printed it was complimentary!”
“You printed it without asking us.”
Her jaw clenched. “Where’s the money, Gabby?”
“It went into the business,” I said calmly. “Like it would with any other job.”
“You’re my sister. You should’ve done it for free!”
Timothy stepped behind me, placing his arm around me.
“But your guests are rich, Tara. I thought they’d be classy enough to cover their ride.”
The next day, she left me a voicemail—equal parts crying and shouting.
Two days later, a text: “You humiliated me. I’ll never forgive you.”
Now, three days later, I’m in the car post–OB appointment, sour candy resting on my belly. The doctor says baby’s perfect, head down, heart strong.
As we drive, Timothy grins. “Want ice cream?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We stop at our favorite place. He helps me out like I’m porcelain. We sit on a bench, cones in hand, and I finally breathe.
“She thought being ‘designated driver’ was an honor,” I said, laughing.
“Next time she calls,” he chuckled, “we’ll be too busy with nap time and diapers.”
I smiled. “There’s no room for selfishness where we’re going.”
Because this baby deserves a mom who knows the difference between helping and being used.
And I’m done orbiting people who never asked if I wanted to spin around them.
