The Price-Tagged Wedding
When my sister sent out her wedding invitations, she didn’t just include an RSVP card.
She included a price list.
Apparently, attending her so-called “luxury celebration” meant paying for packages like it was a concert or a VIP event.
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my younger sister, Emily. She’s twenty-five now, and honestly, she’s always been my parents’ favorite. If there was ever a competition for attention growing up, I didn’t even need to enter — Emily would win by default every single time.
She was “the pretty one,” “the fun one,” “the baby of the family.”
Meanwhile, I was the responsible one — the one who got good grades, worked hard, followed rules, and cleaned up after her chaos.
Our parents adored her. And they expected me to adore her too.
And for most of my life, I tried. I really did.
But then I realized something — Emily didn’t just expect admiration.
She expected sponsorship.
I have a good corporate job now. I’ve worked my way up for years, and for the first time in my life, I don’t have to check my bank account before buying groceries. But to Emily, that didn’t mean success — it meant I was her personal ATM.
She started small.
“Hey, can I borrow a couple hundred for a dress? I’ll pay you back next week,” she’d say sweetly.
Then it became, “You make more than I do, sis. It’s not a big deal.”
And before I knew it, she stopped pretending she’d ever pay me back.
Whenever I tried to set boundaries, my parents would guilt-trip me.
“Olivia, she’s your sister,” my mom would say. “You can afford to help.”
Every single time, I caved a little. Until her engagement happened.
The moment she got engaged, I knew something ridiculous was coming. I just didn’t realize how bad it would be.
Two weeks ago, her wedding invitation arrived — elegant envelope, gold trim, the works. It was honestly stunning. But tucked behind it was another sheet. I assumed it was a gift registry.
Oh, I wish it had been.
Instead, it was a price list.
A full-on, color-coded spreadsheet — with tiers, emojis, and “premium options.”
At the bottom was a note in gold script that read:
“All guests must select a participation tier to help support our dream wedding 💕”
Then came the “tiers”:
- $100 — Sister’s Selfie with the couple 📸
- $200 — Seat in the front row 💐
- $250 — Dinner with the couple after the reception 🍽️
- $500 — Name engraved on the guestbook table 🖋️
- $1,000 — Honorary bridesmaid sash 👗
- $2,500 — Right to toss the bouquet 🌸
- $5,000 — Sponsor a champagne toast — with your name announced 🥂
I read it three times, convinced I was hallucinating.
But no — Emily had actually turned her wedding into a subscription service.
I called her immediately.
“Emily, please tell me this is a joke,” I said.
She laughed.
“Oh, come on, Liv! Don’t be so uptight. You have to vibe prosperity. This is about abundance and love in its highest frequency.”
“Emily,” I said flatly, “this isn’t abundance. It’s extortion.”
She gasped. “Wow. I didn’t expect negativity from my own sister.”
I hung up before I said something cruel. Then I called my parents.
“Dad,” I said, “Emily’s charging people to attend her wedding. She literally sent out a price menu for seats and selfies. Please tell me you don’t think this is okay.”
There was a pause. Then Dad sighed.
“Sweetheart, it only happens once. She’s under a lot of pressure. Just pay it, it’ll make her happy.”
“Make her happy? She’s turning her wedding into a GoFundMe campaign!”
Mom’s voice came softly on the line.
“Olivia, don’t be dramatic. It’s Emily’s special day. You’ll regret it if you don’t support her.”
That’s when I knew — I was completely alone in this. My parents had chosen her side again.
At first, I wanted to skip the wedding altogether. But then a delicious little spark of mischief lit up in my mind.
Why give her the satisfaction of thinking I was jealous or “stingy” when I could turn her own greed into the night’s entertainment?
So I RSVP’d yes.
When Emily texted me later —
“I knew I could count on you, sis! Can’t wait to see which tier you picked!” —
I replied, “Don’t worry. I’ll bring an envelope of cash to cover my packages.”
For the next few days, I prepared my masterpiece — an envelope stuffed full of one hundred $1 bills. Crisp, clean, perfectly counted. On the front, I wrote:
“Payment for Sister’s Selfie Package.”
When I told my coworker Tina, she nearly spit out her coffee.
“You’re kidding!” she laughed.
“Nope,” I said, smirking. “If she wants guests to act like customers, I’ll act like one. Customers pay in cash — and they get receipts.”
Tina grinned. “You have to let me come. I’ll be your plus-one and moral support. And I’m recording everything.”
I agreed instantly.
The big day arrived. The venue looked like something out of a movie — chandeliers, roses, soft music — but something felt off. The guests weren’t exactly glowing with joy. People whispered behind their programs, exchanging awkward glances.
Turns out, everyone had gotten similar price lists — each with slightly different “packages.” It was like attending a wedding that came with a built-in upgrade menu.
The gift table was piled with envelopes and luxury boxes. Emily stood beside it like a queen collecting tributes.
“Oh my gosh, sis!” she squealed when she saw me. “You came through! My favorite big sister!”
“Of course,” I said, smiling sweetly as I set the thick envelope on the table. “Let me just… count it out.”
Her face froze. “Count it out?”
“Yes,” I said brightly, pulling out the stack of one-dollar bills. “I want to make sure you get every dollar of your Sister’s Selfie Package.”
Then I started counting.
Slowly. Loudly.
“One… two… three… four…”
By twenty, a few heads turned.
By fifty, people started giggling.
By eighty, an entire circle of guests had gathered.
“Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred!” I slapped the final bill down dramatically. “There you go, Em. Payment complete!”
Laughter spread through the crowd like wildfire.
Emily’s face went from pale to crimson. “Olivia! What are you doing?”
“Just making sure I fulfill my financial obligations,” I said sweetly. “You wouldn’t want anyone thinking I skipped a payment.”
Even her groom, Robert, was biting back a smile. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the nearest table.
The rest of the night was gloriously awkward.
Guests whispered jokes like, “Do we get a receipt with dessert?” or “How much for the next song request?”
Every time Emily walked by, someone chuckled behind their napkin.
By dessert, she was barely holding it together. I could see her fake smile cracking every time someone snorted into their champagne.
I, meanwhile, was having the time of my life. I’d eaten my “tier-approved” dinner, taken my “selfie package” photo, and was now sipping champagne with Tina, who was giggling nonstop.
Then the DJ announced, “Next up, the bouquet toss!”
I nearly choked. That was one of the premium items on her list! I half-expected her to pull out a credit card machine.
But I wasn’t done yet. I had one last move — the grand finale.
As people gathered for the final speeches, I stood up and tapped my glass.
Clink, clink, clink.
“Excuse me,” I said loudly. “I need to speak to the vendor.”
Every head turned. Even the string quartet stopped.
Emily froze mid-smile. “Vendor?” she echoed.
“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “The one responsible for the wedding packages. I have a few issues with my purchase.”
Tina almost fell off her chair laughing.
“Olivia, this is not the time—” Emily hissed.
“Oh, but it is,” I interrupted. “According to my Sister’s Selfie Package, I was promised a genuine smile from the bride. I regret to inform you, the smile was not delivered as advertised.”
Laughter erupted.
I continued, pretending to scroll my phone. “Also, my dinner was cold, my chair wobbled, and my engraved guestbook name appears to be missing. Therefore, I’d like to formally request a refund.”
The entire tent burst into laughter. Even some bridesmaids doubled over. Someone shouted, “Give the lady her refund!”
Emily’s face burned red. “You’re ruining my wedding!” she screamed.
“No, Emily,” I said calmly. “You ruined it when you started charging people to celebrate love. I just paid the bill.”
Robert, her groom, rubbed his face, mumbling, “Maybe we should just—”
“Don’t you dare side with her!” Emily snapped at him.
The whispers grew louder.
“Did she really charge for seats?”
“My invite said $150 for champagne!”
It spread like wildfire — and suddenly, Emily’s “dream day” became her public disaster.
I smiled and said, “Don’t worry, sis. I’m generous. You can keep the ones. Consider it a tip for poor service.”
More laughter exploded across the room. Even Grandma June muttered, “Finally! Someone gave that girl a dose of reality.”
Emily stormed out, her veil flying behind her like a white flag of defeat. Robert followed, looking half embarrassed, half relieved. My parents looked like they wanted to sink into the floor.
I sat back down beside Tina, my heart pounding.
“That,” Tina whispered, wiping tears of laughter, “was legendary. You know this is going to go viral, right?”
“Oh, it already is,” I said. Tina had recorded everything.
By morning, the video was everywhere.
The caption read: “Sister Requests Refund at Pay-to-Play Wedding.”
Thousands of comments poured in:
“Who sells selfies at their own wedding?”
“She deserved that refund!”
“I’d pay good money to see that bride’s face.”
Emily’s “luxury celebration” had become a global meme overnight.
Two days later, she called me, screaming through the phone.
“You humiliated me, Olivia! Do you know how many people saw that video?!”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “And maybe now they’ll think twice before monetizing their relatives.”
“You’re unbelievable!” she snapped before hanging up.
My parents were furious at first, saying I “went too far.” But even they had to admit it was absurd — especially once Grandma June started retelling the story at every family dinner.
“I always knew that girl would learn the hard way,” Grandma said proudly, sipping her tea. “Bless Olivia for speeding up the process.”
A few weeks later, an envelope arrived in my mail — no return address. But I knew the handwriting.
Inside was a single dollar bill and a note:
“Refund issued. Congratulations! You finally got your money’s worth. — Emily.”
I burst out laughing.
Maybe she was still angry. Maybe she’d finally learned something.
Either way, I got exactly what I wanted — closure and a story worth every penny.
Because if you treat your family like customers, don’t be shocked when they start asking for refunds.
And sometimes, the best way to teach someone about love and generosity…
is to make them pay for it first.