How My Sister’s Wedding Became a Crime Scene in Less Than 20 Minutes
Every case I worked on through my clinical internships felt personal in a way my supervisors noticed but didn’t question, recognizing that the fire driving my work came from somewhere real and painful. I graduated near the top of my class and got recruited by the district attorney’s office in a major city, finally feeling like I’d turned my trauma into something meaningful and useful.
Diane became eligible for parole after serving 12 years, and the notification letter arrived at my apartment on a random Thursday morning. My hands shook worse than they had in years as I read that she’d be having a parole hearing in three months and victims had the right to submit statements or attend in person.
I called Felicity immediately, and we cried together over the phone, both of us dragged back to that day at her wedding when everything went wrong. We agreed to write statements opposing parole but not to attend the hearing in person, not wanting to see Diane face to face after all these years.
Writing that statement took me three weeks and multiple drafts, trying to capture how her actions had permanently altered my life’s trajectory and taken away my ability to ever feel completely safe. The tremors, the nightmares, the hypervigilance around food and drinks, the years of therapy, the relationships that failed because I couldn’t trust people not to hurt me—all of it traced back to 18 minutes at my sister’s wedding when someone decided I was disposable.
The parole board denied Diane’s release, citing the severity of her crime and lack of genuine remorse in her statements. She’d be eligible to apply again in two years, starting a cycle that would probably continue for the rest of her sentence.
Jeffrey’s relief was palpable when he called to tell us the news, and I could hear the twins making noise in the background, oblivious to the danger their grandmother represented. We all exhaled together, knowing we had at least two more years before having to face this again.
Two more years of safety before the system made us relive our trauma to convince strangers that Diane should stay locked up. It felt like a punishment for surviving, this constant requirement to prove that what happened to us was bad enough to justify continued consequences for the perpetrator.
Now six years after that day, I prosecute criminal cases and fight for victims who can’t always fight for themselves. My hands still shake sometimes, and I still won’t drink anything I didn’t prepare myself, and I still have nightmares about being locked in dark rooms unable to breathe.
But I’m also stronger than I ever thought possible, with a career I love and a life I built from the wreckage of what Diane tried to destroy. Felicity’s twins call me “auntie” and have no idea why I flinch when they offer me sips of their juice boxes, why I always have to watch them pour it first.
My sister’s wedding album sits in her closet unopened, a memorial to the celebration that never was and the innocence we lost that day. Some wounds heal and some just become part of who you are, and I carry both kinds forward into whatever comes next.
Sometimes people ask if I’ve forgiven Diane, and I tell them honestly that forgiveness isn’t something she’s earned or that I owe her. She made a choice to poison me and another choice to lock me away while I died, and she has to live with those choices just like I have to live with their consequences.
The difference is I didn’t choose this path, but I’m making the most of it anyway, turning my pain into purpose and my trauma into triumph. That’s more than Diane ever did with her freedom and more than she deserves from the life she tried to take from me.
My sister’s wedding turned into a crime scene in under 20 minutes, but the aftermath has lasted years and taught me more about human nature and survival than any classroom ever could. I wouldn’t choose this story if I had the option, but I’m not ashamed of it either.
