Sister of the bride speech examples

When Maya was seven, she wrote a will. A proper last will and testament, in felt tip. I found it last month in a box at Mum's. It leaves her entire estate — one hamster, forty pence, and a Walkman with a chewed cable — to me, on the sole condition that I, and I am quoting, "look after Snuffles and think about her often." She was not dying. She was going to a sleepover.

I'm Priya, and I'm Maya's big sister, which means I have spent thirty years watching this woman prepare for every event in her life as though it were her last.

Maya has always been the most extravagantly organised person alive. On family holidays she packed a spare outfit for her teddy. She colour-coded her homework — not by subject, by mood. She once made a laminated sign for a lemonade stand that was open for one afternoon.

And I found it hilarious, because I was the opposite kind of sister. I turned up to my exams with one pen and a lot of confidence. Maya turned up with three pens, a spare pen for the spare pen, and a small bag of almonds in case civilisation collapsed during double maths.

Here is the thing I only worked out recently, though. None of it was ever really about being tidy. Maya prepares for things because she cares about them so much it frightens her a little. The lists are love. The spare teddy outfit was love. She has spent her whole life quietly making sure the people around her are looked after, right down to the last almond.

Which brings me to Daniel.

Daniel, the first time you came for Sunday lunch, you brought a spreadsheet. You had researched us. You had a column for Dad's football team and a column marked "do not mention." And I watched my sister look at you across the table like she had finally found the one other person on earth who packs a spare outfit for the teddy.

I have wanted a brother my whole life, mostly so I would stop being outnumbered. Daniel — you're it. You're official. And unlike Maya's will, at least this contract has witnesses.

Maya, you have been my favourite person to plan things with since before either of us could spell the word "estate." I could not be prouder of the woman you have organised yourself into.

Everyone — please raise your glasses. To Maya and Daniel.

The summer I turned nine, our family moved house, and for the first three nights in the new place I could not sleep. On the fourth night my little sister Grace, who was six, dragged her duvet across the landing, lay down on the floor beside my bed without being asked, and said, "I'll stay till you're not scared." She fell asleep first. She always fell asleep first. But she came every night for a fortnight, until the house stopped being strange.

I'm Ellie, and I'm Grace's older sister — though from about the age of six, she has quietly been mine too.

People assume the older sister is the one who does the looking after. And on paper I did. I taught her to ride a bike and tie her laces and which teachers to avoid. But the truth I have never actually said out loud is that Grace was always the one who noticed things. She still is. She is the person in any room who clocks the one guest standing alone and just goes and stands next to them.

I have watched her become that person slowly, over the whole thirty years — from a six-year-old on a cold landing floor into a woman who takes care of people so gently they barely feel it happening.

And then, four years ago, she brought Tom home.

I was braced to assess him. Older sisters are. But I did not get much assessing done, because within about an hour I watched Tom quietly refill everyone's water glasses at the table without a word about it — and I saw Grace notice him do it. And I understood she had found the other one. The other person who watches the room.

Tom, I have never had a brother, and I have spent a lot of years being Grace's only line of defence. Thank you for standing next to her now. You should know the post comes with duties. If she is ever scared, you drag your duvet across the landing. That is the job. She did it for me first.

Grace, you have been the kindest person I know since you were six years old on a freezing floor. Watching you grow into exactly who you always were has been the honour of my life.

Please raise your glasses. To Grace and Tom.

When Sofia was four and I was seven, she announced she was going to marry me. I explained, gently, the two main obstacles. She thought about it for a moment and said, "Fine, but you still have to come to the wedding." Sofia — I made it. Twenty-nine years late, and to a considerably better-suited groom, but I made it.

I'm Lucia, and I'm the big sister.

Growing up, Sofia was the brave one and I was the careful one. She was the sister who climbed the tree, and I was the sister at the bottom already working out how we would explain it to Mum. She has spent her entire life leaping, and I have spent mine quietly proud of the height.

The thing about a little sister is that you get to watch the whole film. I saw her at four and forty inches tall. I saw her at fourteen and furious about absolutely everything. And I have watched her become this — calm, and warm, and completely herself.

Ben, I want to say one thing to you. I have known Sofia longer than anyone in this room, and I have never once seen her as steady as she is beside you. You did not clip her wings. You just stopped standing at the bottom of the tree looking worried, which frankly is more than I ever managed. I can retire now. The post is yours.

I always wanted a brother. It turns out I just had to wait for Sofia to go and find me one.

Sofia — you were the best thing that ever happened to me before you could even walk. Everyone, please raise your glasses. To Sofia and Ben.