His Girl Bro Killed Our Wedding

By the time I got back to the hospital, they'd already moved Grandma to the morgue.

A white sheet covered her small, fragile body—cutting off the last warmth I had.

I didn't cry.

I'd run out of tears sometime during that endless night.

Numb, I handled the death certificate, called the funeral home, and watched them slide her into cold storage.

Three years ago, Grandma held Peter's hand and placed mine in his. "Peter, Joey's had it rough. From now on, you're her support."

Back then, he cried harder than I did and swore he'd take care of me for life.

I thought I'd found shelter.

Turns out, he was the storm.

I pulled out the wooden hair clip he'd carved for me.

The edges were worn smooth from years of holding it. It used to mean everything.

I gripped it with both hands—and snapped it in half.

Five years of loving him snapped with it.

By the time I finished arranging Grandma's funeral, it was already noon.

The exact time we were supposed to be saying our vows.

I took a cab back to our apartment.

The second I opened the door, wedding decorations hit me—pastel balloons floating overhead, like a joke.

I went to the bedroom, pulled out two suitcases, and started packing.

Only my stuff—clothes, documents. Anything he bought, even socks, I left behind.

I zipped the last suitcase.

The door unlocked with a fingerprint scan.

Peter walked in, holding a fancy cake box.

He looked tired—but there was this easy confidence in his eyes.

In his hand was that famous blueberry cake from downtown. My favorite. Every time I got upset, he'd bring it to smooth things over.

He spotted the suitcases and frowned.

Then it vanished. He set the cake on the coffee table, voice softening. "Babe, still mad?"

He stepped in to hug me, like always.

I moved.

His hand hung there for a second before he pulled it back.

"Alright, enough with the attitude. I dragged Gina to file for divorce first thing this morning. See? I kept my word."

He pointed at the clock. "It's noon. We missed the ceremony, but we can still make the banquet. Go change. The makeup artist's already at the hotel. It's our big day. Don't let everyone laugh at us."

Like filing for divorce and bringing a cake fixed everything. Like I should just fall back into place.

I looked at him, calm.

No anger. No tears. No running into his arms.

I pulled a paper from my pocket and handed it over.

Peter paused, a faint smile forming. "What's this? A written apology? Or a prenup?"

He took it, glanced down.

His smile froze.

It was a death certificate.

Grandma's name was printed clear. Time of death: 4:05 a.m.

The exact moment he'd been at the station—pushing me aside over Gina's $200,000.

His hand started shaking. His voice broke. "Th-This... what is this supposed to mean? Joey, don't joke about this..."

I looked at him, calm. "You don't need to divorce her. The wedding's canceled for good. So are we."