I remember the moment she said it. We were sitting under a trellis at the rehearsal brunch, sipping lukewarm mimosas and pretending everything was fine.
My brother Daniel looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in his salmon-pink tie. His fiancée, Courtney, sat with a look on her face like she had swallowed Pinterest whole and was still chewing.
Then she raised her glass and glanced down our end of the table.
“I know your side’s more… casual,” she said with a fake smile. “But just try to look presentable, okay?”
Everyone gave polite little laughs. But I saw my mom tense up next to me. My dad gripped his coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping him calm.
We let it go. Because that’s what we always did with Courtney.
The next day, we all showed up in dusty rose and gold, just like she wanted. I held her bouquet for the portraits. I pinned her sister’s corsage when no one else could get it right. We clapped, cheered, smiled for every single photo.
We flew in from three different states. We followed every rule.
But when the wedding photos and the big highlight video came out weeks later—we weren’t in them. At all.
Okay, fine. There was one three-second clip of my parents smiling awkwardly during the vows. But that was it.
No group hugs. No laughs. No smiles. Just Courtney’s family dancing in slow motion, tossing flower petals, clapping like they were in a movie. It was like we didn’t even exist.
I waited two days before texting her.
“Hey! Are there any pics of us siblings? I just noticed that we weren’t in the posts.”
Her reply came fast.
“Hmm, there aren’t any, Taylor. Maybe the photographer didn’t think they were worth keeping.”
I stared at my phone. Not worth keeping.
That’s what she said.
I didn’t reply. There was nothing else to say.
Six months later, I got engaged to Alex. The kindest man I’ve ever known. He cried when I showed him the lace sleeves I wanted for my dress.
“They make your skin look like poetry,” he whispered.
We weren’t trying to impress anyone. We just wanted something small, meaningful, and real. An outdoor ceremony. A champagne tower. Vows scribbled on napkins at midnight.
Even my old piano teacher cried when I asked her to play Can’t Help Falling in Love.
“It’s going to be perfect, Tay,” Alex told me, pulling me close. “Not like your brother’s wedding. This one will be us. Real. Romantic.”
I smiled. He was right.
And there was one decision I made early on: Courtney wasn’t invited.
It wasn’t revenge. It was honesty. She had made it very clear how she saw us—background extras in the story of her life.
When we hired our videographer, Rachel, I gave her one special instruction.
“I want you to make Courtney feel like the star,” I said. “Smile at her, film her, nod like you’re capturing gold. Then delete every second.”
Rachel’s eyes sparkled. “A decoy?”
“No,” I said. “More like… a ghost edit.”
She laughed, took a mini chocolate tart from the table, and said, “Got it. We’ll shoot everything… and save nothing.”
It wasn’t about getting back at Courtney. It was about something deeper—keeping the record straight. Because memories fade, but videos? Videos last.
I wanted her to feel what we felt.
Erased.
Two weeks before the wedding, I was at family dinner. Out of nowhere, Courtney slid into the seat beside me.
“Hey, Taylor,” she said, grinning. “I might have to work before and after, but I should be able to make it to the wedding!”
Like we’d been chatting about it for weeks.
I blinked. “That’s fine. The Airbnb’s booked, whether you’re in it or not.”
Her smile twitched. Then she sipped her wine.
“Can’t wait to see what colors you and Alex chose. It’s a blended wedding, right? Hopefully it’s not too… casual.”
“Oh no,” I said sweetly. “It’s very formal. Black tie. Big energy. Super elegant.”
She didn’t need to know that my bridesmaids were wearing bright-colored Converse under their gowns.
Also… I made sure her invitation said “Cortnee” instead of “Courtney.”
Our wedding day was magic. The sky looked like a painting. The gardens glowed in the sunlight. Everything was calm and full of love.
Alex looked at me like I was the last poem in the world.
There were tears, laughter, barefoot dancing under string lights. It was the kind of night that made you forget what “regret” even meant.
Rachel did her work perfectly. Courtney was filmed like a queen—smiles, poses, flashes of fake charm—but in the end, none of it made the final cut.
We posted the teaser video the next Monday.
A soft piano played. There were slow shots of Alex kissing me, us laughing under the flower arch, my dad tearing up during his speech, Daniel hugging Alex, my mom fixing her lipstick.
It was dreamy. Honest. Beautiful.
And not a single shot of Courtney.
Fifteen minutes later, as I made tea, Courtney called.
“Taylor!” she screeched. “Where am I in the video?! This is so petty and mean! I was there! There’s no record of me in that stupid video!”
I took a slow sip of my tea.
“Oh? That’s strange. I guess the videographer didn’t think your footage was worth keeping. Isn’t that what you said to me?”
Silence.
I imagined her sitting in her fancy chair, mouth open, one heel off, shocked.
“You know I looked amazing, Taylor! My hair was flawless! I’ve never looked better in my life. How could you cut me out?! My own sister-in-law!”
I raised my eyebrows.
“My friends are asking why I’m not in the clips! I look like a random extra! You can only see my elbow during your dad’s speech!”
I let the silence stretch.
“You’re being dramatic,” I said softly. “Honestly, Courtney… it must’ve been a mistake during editing.”
She screamed and hung up.
That night, Daniel texted.
“Tay. Courtney’s freaking out. I’m guessing this is about the video?”
“Yup,” I replied, flipping guacamole for our tacos.
“You could’ve warned me. She’s losing her mind. What did you even get from this?”
“She could’ve included us, Daniel. There’s not one photo of me and you at your wedding.”
He didn’t reply.
Weeks passed. I expected… something. A card. A flower. A “you looked beautiful.” But nothing came.
Courtney doesn’t do apologies. She does control. She gives compliments that feel like leashes.
Then came Thanksgiving.
She showed up in a floor-length white dress. Lace sleeves. Bridal lipstick. She looked like she was starring in a sequel to her own wedding.
No drama. She’s too classy for that.
But while I stirred hot cider in the kitchen, she came in and quietly closed the door behind her.
“Petty’s not a good look on you,” she said.
I didn’t turn around.
“Neither is erasing an entire family.”
She stepped closer.
“You think I’m the villain, don’t you?”
I finally looked at her.
“No. I think you’re the main character in your own head. But in real life? Not every camera belongs to you.”
That hit hard. Her eyes flashed.
“You don’t get it,” she whispered. “You’ve always had the warm, loving family. I was marrying into a Hallmark movie. I just… didn’t want to feel like the outsider.”
I paused.
“You could’ve said that, Courtney.”
Her voice cracked.
“It’s easier to be the wicked witch.”
I laughed. Not mean—just… tired.
“Well, congrats. You nailed it.”
She smiled faintly.
“So… is there a full wedding video? Or am I just… a ghost?”
“Rachel has 200 gigs of raw footage,” I told her. “But she knew what not to back up.”
A week after Thanksgiving, she texted me.
“Can I drop something off? Just you and me?”
She came over with a white envelope and a quiet smile. Inside was a flash drive and a handwritten note.
“In case you ever want to remember the day without resentment. Mine, not yours.”
That night, after Alex fell asleep, I watched it.
Courtney’s wedding. Daniel’s wedding. But this time… we were there. Laughing, dancing, helping. Adjusting veils, clinking glasses. Looking like a family.
We belonged.
The next day, I walked into Rachel’s studio.
“I want the raw footage,” I said. “Everything. Don’t cut a thing.”
She just smiled.
That weekend, Courtney came over again. I made brownies. She brought ice cream. We sat on the couch like we hadn’t been at war for nearly a year.
“Brownies first,” she mumbled, mouth full. “Then we cry.”
I hit play.
There she was—dancing, laughing, spinning with my mom under the lights. Telling Daniel:
“Your sister is the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”
I turned to look at her. Her mascara was already running.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Same,” she said, grabbing my hand.
We didn’t say much after that. We just passed the brownies and ice cream back and forth and let the video play.
No edits. No cuts. No ghosts.
Just two women figuring out how to be real again.