My stepsister not only wanted to draw attention, but to destroy me. She purposely scheduled her wedding on the same day as mine, and when she realized I kept refusing

My stepsister didn’t just want attention; she wanted to destroy me. She deliberately scheduled her wedding for the same day as mine, and when she realized I still refused to back down, she crossed a line I’ll never forgive: she made small holes in my wedding dress, as if she could unravel my happiness thread by thread. It broke my heart… but the real betrayal came from my parents, because despite everything, they chose her wedding over mine, leaving me completely alone on the day I’d dreamed of my entire life. But then, the cameras caught me on TV, and suddenly my parents saw the truth. They went pale, panicked, and rushed straight to my house, desperate to fix what they’d done… only to walk in and stop dead in their tracks, stunned into silence… because…

I’m Emma Collins, and I used to believe that family meant being there when it mattered most.

I got engaged first. I planned my wedding for June 15th, booked the venue, sent out save-the-date invitations, and even paid the deposits months in advance. My fiancé, Ryan, and I weren’t rich, but we worked hard and saved up for a simple, meaningful day.

Then my stepsister, Brittany Harper, announced her engagement out of the blue. At first, I was happy for her. Until she smiled—too sweet, too jaded—and said, “We picked our date… June 15th.”

I looked at her like she was joking. She wasn’t. She’d chosen the same day as me, knowing every detail.

I took her aside later and asked, politely, if she’d reconsider. She leaned toward me, whispering like it was a sisterly secret.

“I’ve always wanted to be everyone’s pick, Emma. I guess we’ll see who they like the most.”

My stomach churned.

The worst part? My parents—my mother and stepfather—didn’t stop her. They told me Brittany’s fiancé’s family “needed that date” and that I should be “more grown-up.” I begged them to stay with me. My mother avoided my gaze and said, “We’ll try to split the day.” But I knew what that meant.

The week of the wedding, my dress arrived at my parents’ house to be steamed. Brittany offered to “help,” suddenly pretending to support me. I should have thought twice.

The night before my wedding, I went to pick up my dress. It was hanging in a garment bag in the guest room. I felt something strange as soon as I opened it.

There were holes. Not one or two, but several, jagged and obvious, tearing through the bodice and skirt as if someone had ripped them apart with a blade.

I screamed. My mother rushed in, panting, and Brittany appeared behind her, covering her mouth as if she were surprised too. But I saw it: her eyes. The satisfaction she was trying to hide.

My parents didn’t accuse her. They didn’t even offer me proper comfort. They told me to “stay calm,” that “it was probably an accident,” and that “at least Brittany’s dress is fine.”

The next morning, as I stood in my apartment holding my ruined wedding dress, my parents texted me:

“We’re going to Brittany’s wedding. See you later.”

I got married anyway.