It came from Madison, Ethan’s younger sister, about her bachelorette weekend at the exclusive Coral Sands Beach Club in Fort Lauderdale. Madison had always been the spoiled center of the family—the loudest, youngest, and most entitled. Ethan, eight years older, had spent most of his life cleaning up her problems, paying her debts, and calming her tantrums.
The email was full of pink emojis and fake excitement. But the final line felt like a knife.
Mandatory Dress Code for our VIP Poolside Photoshoot: Two-piece white bikinis for ALL bridesmaids! No exceptions, ladies! We need to look cohesive and flawless for the Gram. Link to the approved styles is attached.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
A white two-piece bikini.
Madison knew I was modest even on my best days. She had also seen me at brunch two weeks earlier, wearing a loose sweater, exhausted and uncomfortable in my own skin. She didn’t know about the miscarriage, but she knew my body had changed.
I closed the laptop, but my hands were shaking.
For two days, I said nothing to Ethan. I kept imagining myself standing next to five tanned, toned women in a white bikini, my grief turned into a photo opportunity.
If I refused, I would be dramatic. If I went, I would be the awkward, bloated outsider in every picture online.
On Thursday night, Ethan found me sitting on our bed, staring at the wall, the email printed and crushed in my hand. He gently took it from me and read it. His face hardened.
“She knows you don’t wear two-pieces,” he said quietly. “And she knows white is unforgiving.”
“She said no exceptions,” I whispered.
Ethan crushed the paper and threw it away.
