She Thought I Would Stay

Three hours before my sister’s wedding, Brielle stood beside my catering van in a white satin robe, looked at the invoice in my hand, and laughed.

“Maya, seriously? You’re family. You don’t get paid.”

For a second, I thought she was joking.

Behind her, through the open service doors of the reception hall, my employees were setting up warming trays. Inside my van were nearly two days of work—roasted chicken, pasta, appetizers, desserts, and the four-tier wedding cake I had finished decorating at 2:17 that morning.

The invoice in my hand said $27,000.

Not profit.

Ingredients. Labor. Rentals. Transportation. Staff.

Money I had already spent.

I looked at Brielle.

“Your deposit was due six weeks ago.”

She adjusted the sleeve of her robe.

“Mom said she’d handle you.”

“Handle me?”

Brielle sighed.

“You know what I mean.”

I did.

That was the problem.

My name is Maya Collins. I owned a small catering company outside Columbus, Ohio. I had started it six years earlier with one used convection oven, a rented commercial kitchen, and $8,400 I had saved while working restaurant jobs.

My family had never treated it like a real business.

For my father’s retirement party, I had provided dinner for seventy people.

Free.

When our grandmother died, I handled the reception.

Free.

Brielle’s baby shower for her best friend had somehow become my responsibility too.

Every time, I heard some version of the same sentence.

“Come on, Maya. It’s family.”

I had told myself the wedding would be different.

It was too large not to be.

One hundred eighty-six guests.

Six servers.

Two kitchen assistants.

Hundreds of appetizers.

Forty-eight pounds of herb-roasted chicken.

Six full pans of baked pasta.

Mini cheesecakes, lemon tarts, chocolate mousse cups.

And the cake.

I had emailed the contract and invoice six weeks earlier.

Brielle signed the order.

Then she kept telling me our parents were sending the deposit.

They never did.

That morning, I had finally decided I would not unload the main food until somebody paid me.

Apparently, Brielle had expected me to lose my nerve.

My mother came through the service entrance carrying a garment bag.

“What is going on?”

Brielle pointed at me.

“She’s asking me for money. Today.”

Mom looked at the invoice.

Then at me.

“Maya, please don’t do this here.”

“Do what?”

“Embarrass your sister.”

I folded the invoice once.

“I’m asking to be paid for my work.”

My father appeared behind her.

“How much are we talking about?”

“Twenty-seven thousand.”

He actually laughed.

“For food?”

I looked at him.

He shrugged.

“You own the company. How much can it really cost you?”

That sentence settled something for me.

Not because it was especially cruel.

Because he genuinely believed it.

Brielle crossed her arms.

“You wouldn’t dare leave anyway.”

I turned toward her.

She nodded toward the ballroom.

“Everyone knows you’re catering. If there’s no food, you’re the one who’s going to look horrible.”

I stared at her for a few seconds.

Then I put the invoice into my apron pocket.

“Okay.”

Her expression softened immediately.

She thought I had surrendered.

I walked past her.

Outside, one of my employees, Marcus, was unloading a rack of glassware.

“Stop unloading.”

He looked at me.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

I opened the rear doors of the catering van.

Two employees looked up from inside.

“Load back anything we’ve already brought out that belongs to us.”

Marcus glanced toward the service entrance.

“Are we leaving?”

“Yes.”

Nobody argued.

They knew we had not been paid.

Within minutes, the rolling racks were secured again.

The cake was already inside the ballroom, but I had photographed it before delivery and documented everything. I wasn’t going to fight over one cake.

I checked the refrigerated compartments.

Then I closed both rear doors.

The metal doors came together with a heavy click.

I slid the lock into place.

That sound got Brielle’s attention.

She came running outside.

“Maya?”

I walked toward the driver’s door.

“What are you doing?”

I climbed in.

“Maya.”

I started the engine.

Then I heard her shoes hitting the pavement.

She had changed into her wedding gown.

My sister ran behind the van holding the front of her dress with both hands.

“Stop!”

I lowered my window.

Her face was red.

“You can’t do this!”

I rested one hand on the steering wheel.

“You’re right.”

She stared at me.

“I can’t cater a wedding for free.”

Then I drove away.

Twenty Minutes Later

I made it about twelve miles before my phone became almost unusable.

Mom.