When Dad called to invite my 12-year-old brother and me to his wedding, I figured the hardest part would be standing there, watching him marry the woman who tore our family apart. Her name was Dana — the woman he left our mother for. I thought I’d grit my teeth, smile politely, and survive the day. I had no idea my quiet little brother was planning something unforgettable.
I’m Tessa, 25, barely holding adulthood together. My brother Owen was the gentlest soul — until Dad cheated on Mom with Dana, his coworker. Mom had come home with a new houseplant and caught them together in the kitchen. The pot shattered when it hit the ground. So did Mom. She tried to hold on — therapy, long letters, desperate prayers — but Dad left anyway. Moved in with Dana within weeks. Owen once asked, “Does Dad love her more than us?” I had no answer.
A year later, Dad called with fake cheer, inviting us to the wedding. Owen said no — until our grandparents guilted us into attending. Two weeks before the ceremony, Owen quietly asked me to order itching powder online. I should’ve questioned it. I didn’t. Maybe part of me didn’t want to. Maybe I was tired of pretending everything was okay.
At the wedding, Owen politely offered to take Dana’s jacket. Mid-vows, she started scratching — arms, neck, even her back. She ran out, humiliated, and returned in a wrinkled backup dress, flustered and red. The whole day shifted. Later, Owen told me, “She didn’t cry. But she’ll remember — the way Mom remembers that day.” Dad’s furious. Dana’s family hates us. Our grandparents want apologies. But I’m not sorry. I didn’t plan it — but I didn’t stop it either. And maybe, this once, that was exactly right.
