How My Sister’s Wedding Became a Crime Scene in Less Than 20 Minutes

She ended up deleting all her social media accounts and going completely dark online, which was hard for her because she’d built part of her career on professional networking. The trial itself took three weeks and was covered by local news stations every single day.

I had to sit in that courtroom listening to Diane’s lawyer try to discredit me by bringing up every mistake I’d ever made—every bad grade in high school, every time I’d gotten in trouble as a kid. They tried to paint a picture of me as an unstable attention-seeker who’d orchestrated this whole thing to get sympathy and money from a lawsuit.

But the physical evidence was overwhelming and the witnesses were consistent, and on the 10th day of testimony, the jury came back with guilty verdicts on all charges. Diane showed no emotion when the verdicts were read, just stared straight ahead like she was somewhere else entirely.

The judge scheduled sentencing for three weeks later and warned Diane’s family in the courtroom to maintain distance from me and Felicity or face contempt charges. Walking out of that courthouse knowing Diane had been convicted felt surreal, like I’d been holding my breath for months and could finally exhale, even though nothing about the situation felt like a win.

Sentencing day arrived with unexpected media attention because Diane’s case had become a bigger story than anyone anticipated. The courtroom was packed with reporters and spectators, and I had to squeeze through a crowd just to get inside.

The prosecutor asked for the maximum sentence given the premeditated nature of the crime and the permanent damage done to my health. I read my victim impact statement with shaking hands, describing how I still couldn’t hold things properly and how I had nightmares about being locked in that storage room dying alone.

I talked about losing my sense of safety at family gatherings and how I’d probably never trust a drink I didn’t pour myself ever again. Diane’s lawyer argued for leniency because she had no prior criminal record and was a respected member of the community, which felt like a sick joke given what she’d done.

The judge listened to everything and then sentenced Diane to 18 years in prison with possibility of parole after 12, calling it one of the most disturbing cases of premeditated violence she’d seen in her career. Diane finally showed emotion then, crying and turning to look at Jeffree in the gallery, but he just stared back at her with no expression before getting up and walking out.

Recovery wasn’t a straight line after the trial ended. Some days I felt almost normal, and other days I couldn’t get out of bed without everything spinning.

The nerve damage meant I had permanent tremors in my hands and occasional balance issues that came and went without warning. I had to drop out of community college for a semester because I couldn’t physically write notes or type properly, which put me even further behind Felicity in everyone’s eyes.

But she never made me feel bad about it, never compared her graduate degrees to my unfinished associate’s, just supported me through physical therapy and doctor’s appointments and the endless paperwork that came with being a crime victim. Dad sold his house and bought a new one in a different neighborhood, saying he needed a fresh start without memories of Diane in every room.

We packed up my childhood bedroom together, and I threw away most of my old stuff, wanting to leave that version of myself behind and start over as someone who’d survived attempted murder and lived to tell about it. Jeffree and Felicity’s marriage survived despite everything, though they ended up in intensive couples therapy to deal with the trauma.

Jeffree had to process that his mother had tried to kill his wife’s sister, and Felicity had to work through her guilt about not protecting me when she saw something was wrong during the ceremony. They moved across the country for Jeffrey’s job about a year after the trial, putting physical distance between themselves and the constant reminders of what happened.

We video call every week and they visit for holidays, and things feel almost normal until someone mentions the wedding and we all go quiet. They never had a real celebration or reception, never got the happy beginning they had planned, and I carry guilt about that even though everyone tells me it wasn’t my fault.

The wedding photos that were taken before everything went wrong sit in a box in Felicity’s closet, never framed or displayed, just preserved evidence of the last moment before our family changed forever. Two years after the poisoning, I finally finished my associate’s degree and transferred to a four-year university three hours away from home.

Starting fresh in a new city where nobody knew my story felt liberating, like I could be someone other than the girl who almost died at her sister’s wedding. I made new friends who never asked about my scars or why my hands shook sometimes, who accepted me as I was without needing to know the “before” version.

I changed my major to criminal justice because the experience with the legal system had shown me how much victims needed advocates who understood what they were going through. My professors never knew why I was so passionate about victim’s rights or why I volunteered so many hours at the campus legal aid clinic, and I preferred keeping that part of my story private.

Dating was complicated because eventually I’d have to explain the tremors and the nightmares and why I wouldn’t drink anything I didn’t open myself, but the right people understood and the wrong people showed themselves out quickly. Diane sent me a letter from prison about three years into her sentence, claiming she’d found religion and wanted to apologize for what she’d done.

The return address made my hand shake so badly I dropped the envelope, and I didn’t open it for two weeks. When I finally read it, the apology felt hollow and performative, full of justifications about being stressed and not thinking clearly and how she never meant for things to go that far.

She asked me to write a letter supporting her parole application when the time came, saying she’d learned her lesson and deserved a second chance. I burned the letter in my apartment’s fireplace and never responded, owing her absolutely nothing after she’d nearly taken everything from me.

My therapist said that was a healthy boundary and I shouldn’t feel guilty about refusing to participate in Diane’s redemption narrative when I was still dealing with the consequences of her actions. Life moved forward in small increments and unexpected ways.

I graduated with my bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and got accepted into a good law school with a scholarship that covered most of the tuition. Dad came to my graduation and cried when I walked across the stage, probably remembering that there was a time when he didn’t know if I’d ever walk again.

Felicity and Jeffree had twins that year, a boy and a girl they named after our mother and Jeffrey’s father, deliberately excluding any family connection to Diane. I flew out to meet them when they were two weeks old—these tiny, perfect humans who would grow up never knowing their grandmother and never understanding why Jeffree still went to therapy to process his mother’s betrayal.

He struggled with guilt that wasn’t his to carry but felt it anyway. He’d cut off all contact with Diane and legally changed his middle name to remove the family connection, trying to separate himself from her legacy.

The physical tremors in my hands improved with continued therapy but never completely disappeared—a permanent reminder of how close I came to not being here. I learned to write with the tremors and type around them and eventually stopped being embarrassed when people noticed.

My law school classmates thought it was from anxiety or too much caffeine, and I let them believe that rather than explaining the real story. I specialized in victim advocacy and prosecution work, using my experience to fuel my passion for holding perpetrators accountable.