I never thought the family trip to San Diego would end with me standing outside a tiny white chapel, watching my husband and my sister prepare to get married.

My name is Claire, and I used to believe I had a normal life.

I was wrong.

San Diego was supposed to be a fresh start for our family.

My parents insisted on a “once-in-a-lifetime trip” to reconnect.

We had an oceanfront hotel suite, a welcome basket of fresh fruit and flowers, and group dinners where everyone pretended the old resentments no longer existed.

My sister, Megan, played the part of the perfect daughter.

She took selfies with my mother and laughed a little too loudly at my father’s jokes.

My husband, Brett, held my hand in public and acted like the devoted husband.

The first two days were normal enough that I began to let my guard down.

I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, we could be a family again.

But old wounds are not easily healed, and I should have known better.

For as long as I can remember, my parents had favored Megan.

She was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong.

Everything she touched turned to gold, and everything I did was never quite enough.

I had accepted this a long time ago, but it still hurt.

Brett knew how I felt about my family.

He had held me many nights while I cried after a difficult phone call with my mother.

He promised me that he would always be on my side.

Now I understand that his promises were made of air.

On the third afternoon, Brett came out of the bathroom with his phone in his hand.