Maid of honor speech examples for your sister

At my seventh birthday party, in front of every kid in my class, my sister stood up and said, "It's 'fewer candles,' not 'less candles.'"

I'm Georgia, Clara's little sister, and she has been correcting me ever since. My texts. My Instagram captions. A eulogy for our goldfish, which she returned with notes.

Here's what I didn't know until I was seventeen. When I wrote my college essay, I gave it to Clara, braced for red ink everywhere. It came back with one circle around one sentence, and a note in the margin: "This one. Build it around this." I did. I got in. She never mentioned it again, and she never took any credit.

That's my sister. She knows exactly which sentence matters, and she doesn't need you to know she knew.

Ezra, I've seen your texts to her. You proofread them now. Last month you sent her "Their going to love it," deleted it, and sent "They're going to love it" eleven seconds later. She showed me the screenshot. She was so proud.

Clara, you taught me that one good sentence is enough. So here's mine.

Please raise your glasses to Clara and Ezra.

Vivian's first word wasn't "Mama" or "Dada." It was "Dee." That's me.

I was eleven when she was born, and I decided on the drive home from the hospital that she was mine. I'm Delia, her big sister, and I fed her, bathed her, and taught her every song from The Little Mermaid, whether she wanted to learn them or not.

When she was nine and I left for college, she hid in the trunk of my car. She had a backpack with a flashlight, three granola bars, and our cat's leash, but not our cat. Dad found her at the first gas station. She told him she was coming too, and that was final.

She's been following me in her own way ever since, and then passing me. She moved to Chicago before I did. She ran a marathon before I did. And today she got married before I did. Mom has asked me to stop pointing that out.

Julian, when you decided to propose, you called me first. You said Vivian's mom would be easy, but you were scared of me. You were right to be.

Vivian, the first word you ever said was my name. Tonight I get to say yours.

Please raise your glasses to Vivian and Julian.

For sixteen years, my sister and I shared one bathroom, and our parents had to write us a schedule and tape it to the door.

Esme got six-forty to seven. I got seven to seven-twenty. The schedule had a second page for weekends and a third page for disputes. I'm Frankie, the younger sister, and I lost every dispute.

Here's the only time Esme ever gave up her slot. The morning of my prom, I woke up late, and I could hear her in there. By the time I got to the door, it was open, the curling iron was already hot, and there was a note on the mirror: "Yours. Don't burn the counter." I burned the counter. She took the blame.

Dom, when you and Esme moved in together, the first thing you did was install a second sink. You did it yourself, over a weekend, with a YouTube video. Our dad said it was the most romantic thing he'd ever seen.

Esme, the door's open. It's all yours now, and you don't even have to share.

Please raise your glasses to Esme and Dom.

For most of our lives, my sister and I weren't close, and I'd rather say that out loud than pretend.

We're four years apart and nothing alike. Holly did theater. I did soccer. She borrowed my clothes without asking, and I told on her for it, every time. By high school we'd mostly stopped talking, and for a while in our twenties we only saw each other at Thanksgiving.

I'm Noelle, and three years ago I moved to Denver for work, where Holly already lived. I didn't know a single person. The first Sunday I was there, she texted me an address and a time. It was a diner. She was already sitting in the booth, and she'd ordered for me. She remembered I like my eggs over hard, from when we were kids.

We've been going every Sunday since. That booth is where she told me about Adrian.

Adrian, a few months after you two started dating, you asked if you could come on Sunday. You sat on the outside of the booth, you ordered last, and you let us talk. You've come almost every week since, and you've never once taken the window seat.

Holly, thank you for that first address. It was the best text I've ever gotten.

Please raise your glasses to Holly and Adrian.

In 1998, my sister played Mary in the school nativity, and she directed the entire thing from the manger.

She told the shepherds where to stand. She told the donkey he was upstaging her. When the Angel Gabriel forgot his line, Lottie said it for him, then turned to the audience and said, "He's new." I was the donkey.

I'm Imogen, Lottie's little sister, and she has been running the show ever since, usually well, occasionally without being asked.

Hamish, the first time Lottie brought you home, you made Mum a cup of tea. You put the milk in first. The room went very quiet. Lottie didn't say a word, and she didn't correct you, and I have never seen her let anything go before. That's when Mum started planning the wedding.

Lottie, you've finally found someone you don't need to direct. Well. Not much.

Ladies and gentlemen, would you please be upstanding and raise your glasses to Lottie and Hamish.

I wrote this on the back of a receipt, which Margot will tell you is very on brand.

I'm Kit, her sister. Margot has been the calm one my whole life. She's the one who drove me to the ER at two in the morning, and she's the one who talked me out of the bangs.

Tobias, the first time I met you, you asked Margot what she wanted for dinner, and then you actually waited for the answer. Nobody waits for the answer.

To Margot and Tobias. I'll keep the receipt.