Maid of honor speech examples that don't sound copied

I hated Olivia for exactly eleven days.

First week of college, a lecture hall with four hundred seats, and I had picked mine: third row, on the aisle, close enough to look interested and far enough away not to get called on. On the second morning, Olivia was in it. Not near it. In it. I stood in the aisle and sighed as loudly as I could, and she looked up and said, "You can have it back on Thursday."

I did not get it back on Thursday. I got it back eleven days later, with a coffee and an apology I never asked for. I'm Kate, and I've been her roommate, her emergency contact and her best friend for the fourteen years since.

That's Olivia. She takes the seat. She took the seat next to me at my grandmother's funeral, when I didn't want anyone there, and she didn't say a word for two hours. She also takes the last slice of pizza, so it's not all good news.

Ben, the first time I met you was at a party in Olivia's old apartment. There was one chair left, and it was next to her. I watched you walk across the whole room, pick it up, and carry it into the kitchen so she'd have somewhere to sit while she cooked. Then you went back to standing by the door.

Olivia, it took me eleven days to figure you out. It took Ben one party.

Please raise your glasses to Olivia and Ben, and to whoever gets the good seat tonight.

When Mia was nine, she sold my bike to the neighbors for four dollars. I was six. I found out when Tommy Alvarez rode it past our house with my streamers still on the handlebars.

I'm Lily, her little sister, and I have waited twenty-four years to tell that story into a microphone.

Here's the part Mia never tells. She spent the four dollars on a padlock. She'd heard Mom say someone was stealing bikes on our street, and she figured if she sold mine first, at least we'd know where it was. A week later she bought it back from Tommy for six dollars, which she had to borrow from me.

That's my sister. Her plans don't always make sense, but she is always trying to keep something safe, and most of the time it's me.

Jordan, I knew you were serious the weekend Mia's car broke down two hours from home. You didn't talk her through it over the phone. You drove out with a toolbox none of us has ever seen you open, and a thermos of the tea she likes, and you sat with her on the side of the highway until the tow truck came at midnight.

Mia, you don't need the padlock anymore.

Please raise your glasses to Mia and Jordan. And Tommy, if you're here, I'd still like my streamers back.

There's a shoebox under my bed with ninety-one letters in it, all from Grace. I've moved six times since college, and that box has come with me every time.

We were ten when her family moved to Ohio, and we decided phone calls were too expensive, which they weren't. So we wrote. Every week for three years, then every month, then on birthdays, and then, somewhere around college, I stopped, the way people do.

Grace didn't stop. Her letters just came further apart. The year my parents split up, one came every Tuesday. None of them mentioned it. They were about her dog, and a teacher she couldn't stand, and a boy in her chemistry class who wore sandals in the snow. I read every one standing at the mailbox. I'm Dana, and I've been Grace's best friend since we were five, but I think that year is when I found out what that actually means.

That's how Grace looks after people: something ordinary, on schedule, for as long as it takes.

When I got into nursing school, I didn't call anyone first. I wrote to Grace. She wrote back the same day, three words in capital letters, "I KNEW IT," and then drove four hours to take me to dinner, because she said some news can't wait for the mail.

Luis, I've watched you do the same. Last spring, when Grace started her new job and was working until nine every night, you put a note in her lunch every single day. I know because she photographed all of them and sent them to me. There were sixty-three.

Grace, I brought the first letter you ever sent me. At the bottom, in purple pen, you wrote, "Write back soon."

This is me writing back.

Please stand and raise your glasses to Grace and Luis.

This wedding is my fault.

Three years ago I hosted a game night, and I seated Zoe next to Eli on purpose, because they were the only two people I knew who take board games as seriously as their taxes. I'm Tasha, Zoe's best friend since high school and, as of tonight, a professional matchmaker.

It did not go well. They played Monopoly for four hours. Eli put hotels on every orange property, and Zoe refused to trade with him on principle. At midnight she flipped the board. I was sure I'd ruined two friendships in one evening.

The next morning, Eli texted me for her number. He wanted a rematch.

They've played that game eleven times since. Zoe keeps the score on the fridge. She's ahead, six to five, and Eli has never once let her win, which I think is the most romantic thing I've ever heard.

Zoe, Eli, I asked you to sit next to each other for one night. You've been doing it every night since.

Please raise your glasses to Zoe and Eli, and please, nobody flip a table tonight.

Raise your hand if Nina has ever made you a spreadsheet.

Keep it up if it was color-coded.

Everyone whose arm is still in the air, welcome, you're among friends. I'm Jen. I've shared a cubicle wall with Nina for six years, and I've received spreadsheets from her for a bachelorette weekend, a group gift, and, once, my own birthday party, which she planned without telling me and then sent me the budget.

Nina plans everything, but there's always a column you don't expect. The birthday spreadsheet had one called "Jen's mood," and she'd filled it in hour by hour. I'd had a hard year. She knew. She'd planned the whole party around it.

Owen is the only thing I've ever seen Nina fail to plan. She met him at a bus stop when her car was in the shop, and she told me that night she didn't have a column for him. She had to make a new one. I've seen it. It's called "Owen," and every row says "yes."

Owen, last month you sent her a spreadsheet of your own, comparing every pizza place within five miles of your apartment. It had formulas. She showed it to the whole office.

So, everyone, arms up one more time, and this time bring a glass. To Nina and Owen.

Hi everyone, I'm Ava, Chloe's sister. I'll keep this short, because Chloe said that if I went over a minute she'd cut the mic.

Chloe, when we were kids you let me sleep on your floor every time there was a thunderstorm, until I was about fifteen, which is later than either of us admits.

Andrew, when the power went out in last month's storm, you lit every candle in the house and read to her out loud until it passed. Chloe called me the next morning just to tell me about it.

To Chloe and Andrew. I love you both. That's my minute.