My husband’s sister, Anya, is getting married in two weeks with a strict “Romantic Vineyard Garden” dress code: a 9-page PDF banning reds, oranges, blacks, whites, navy, sparkles, patterns, lace, and short hems. As a 34-week pregnant woman who overheats easily, I proposed four muted, floor-length dresses with minor deviations, but Anya rejected them, saying they looked too “maternity shoot.” Unable to cope with Arizona’s August heat, I respectfully declined to attend. Anya exploded, posting a passive-aggressive Facebook essay about “self-
centered” people, clearly targeting me. Her bridesmaids faced similar control: matching makeup, eating restrictions, even a nose ring removal demand. Three quit. A cousin revealed Anya hoped my “big belly” wouldn’t ruin her photos. I stayed home, sent a generous gift, and my husband called her out for bullying. At the wedding, 20 guests bailed, and Anya’s lone photo got three likes. Three weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter, Sariyah. My mother-in-law apologized, holding her granddaughter, saying dresses don’t matter. Boundaries aren’t betrayal; they’re survival. Anya never commented on our announcement, but I have my peace, a supportive husband, and a perfect daughter—karma delivered.
