Green-Eyed Under the White Veil: My Sister’s Wedding and My Father’s Favour

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” Mum’s voice sliced through the bedroom as I zipped up my navy dress. Her eyes flicked over me, then darted away, as if she’d rather not see me at all.

I stared at my reflection, hands trembling. The dress was simple, yes, but it was all I could afford after months of temping at the library. “It’s fine, Mum,” I muttered, smoothing the skirt. “It’s not my day.”

Downstairs, laughter spilled from the kitchen. Sophie’s giggle—light, effortless—rose above the rest. I could picture her: hair in perfect curls, surrounded by her friends, Dad fussing over her like she was royalty. My stepdad, technically, but he’d been in our lives since I was ten. He’d always called me ‘Em’, but it was Sophie who got the pet names and the secret winks.

I took a breath and forced myself down the stairs. The house was a riot of flowers and ribbons; even the dog had a bowtie. Sophie spun around when she saw me. “Em! You look lovely!”

She meant it, I think. Sophie always meant well. But as she hugged me, her diamond bracelet—one of Dad’s many gifts—caught the light and flashed in my eyes.

“Ready for the big day?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful.

She nodded, biting her lip. “I’m nervous. But Dad says everything will be perfect.”

Of course he does, I thought. Dad was always there for her: paying for her uni flat in Bristol, buying her a car when she passed her test, now footing the bill for this fairy-tale wedding at a manor house in Surrey. For me? A card on my birthday and a cheque that barely covered my rent.

Mum bustled in, arms full of bouquets. “Emily, can you help with these?”

I took them silently, arranging them on the table while Sophie’s friends snapped selfies and sipped prosecco. Dad swept in next, his suit crisp and his smile wide.

“Morning, girls! Sophie, you look stunning.” He kissed her cheek, then turned to me. “Emily.”

That was it. No hug, no warmth. Just my name.

The car ride to the venue was a blur of chatter and nerves. At the manor house, guests milled about on the lawn, all hats and laughter. I found myself alone by the fountain as Sophie disappeared for photos.

“Alright, Em?” Uncle Pete sidled up beside me, his tie askew.

I shrugged. “Just taking it all in.”

He gave me a knowing look. “Big day for your sister.”

“Yeah.”

He hesitated. “You alright with all this?”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair—that Sophie got everything while I scraped by on temp jobs and second-hand clothes. But I just nodded.

The ceremony was beautiful. Sophie glided down the aisle on Dad’s arm, radiant in white lace. Mum dabbed her eyes; Dad beamed like he’d won the lottery. When it was over, everyone cheered and threw confetti.

At the reception, speeches began. Dad stood up first.

“To my darling Sophie,” he said, raising his glass. “You’ve always been my little princess.”

The room melted around them—applause, laughter, tears. Then he reached under the table and pulled out a velvet box.

“A little something for you,” he said.

Sophie opened it to reveal a sapphire necklace—real sapphires, glinting blue as the sea.

“Oh Dad,” she gasped, flinging her arms around him.

I felt something snap inside me.

Later, as everyone danced and drank champagne, I slipped outside for air. The garden was cool and quiet; only the distant thump of music reached me.

“Emily?”

It was Dad. He stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“Needed some space,” I said.

He nodded. “It’s a big day.”

“For Sophie,” I said before I could stop myself.

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I turned to face him fully for the first time all day. “You never make this much fuss over me.”

He looked taken aback. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” My voice shook. “You paid for her flat, her car… this wedding! When I needed help with rent last year you said you couldn’t afford it.”

He sighed heavily. “Emily… things are different with you.”

“How?”

He hesitated. “You’re older. More independent.”

I laughed bitterly. “You mean I’m not your real daughter.”

He flinched as if I’d slapped him. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” I repeated.

He looked at me for a long moment before turning away. “I’m sorry if you feel left out.”

That was it—a half-hearted apology before he disappeared back inside.

I stood there shivering as fireworks exploded over the garden, everyone else cheering and clapping while I felt invisible.

Back inside, Mum found me by the bar.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing,” I lied.

She squeezed my hand anyway.

The night dragged on—dancing, cake-cutting, endless photos of Sophie and Dad grinning together while I hovered at the edge of every frame.

When it was finally over and we were home again, Sophie came into my room in her pyjamas.

“Em?” she whispered.

I pretended to be asleep but she sat on my bed anyway.

“I know today was hard for you,” she said softly. “But you’re still my sister.”

Tears pricked my eyes but I kept them closed until she left.

Now it’s weeks later and nothing has changed—Dad still calls once a fortnight to check on Sophie; Mum fusses over wedding photos; I go back to temping at the library and eating beans on toast for tea.

But sometimes late at night I wonder: is it wrong to feel jealous? Am I a bad sister for wanting what she has—or just a daughter who never stopped hoping for more?

Would you feel the same in my place? Or am I truly alone in this?