When my dad invited my 12-year-old brother Owen and me to his wedding, I expected the hardest part to be watching him marry the woman who broke our family apart. After he left our mom for Dana, everything in our home collapsed—years of trust, stability, and love disappeared overnight. Our mom fell apart, Owen lost the light in his eyes, and I spent months trying to hold what was left of us together.
A year after the divorce, Dad announced his wedding like it was a normal family event. Relatives pressured us to attend, telling us to “be mature” and “forgive.” Owen agreed reluctantly, but he wasn’t going for Dad—he was going for Mom. Two weeks before the wedding, he quietly asked me to order itching powder on Amazon. I should’ve questioned it, but part of me understood exactly why he wanted it.
On the wedding day, Owen acted perfectly polite, even offering to hang Dana’s white jacket before the ceremony. Minutes into the vows, she began scratching relentlessly, her face turning red as she tried to keep her composure. Eventually she had to run off and change clothes, returning embarrassed and blotchy. The ceremony continued, but the moment was ruined. Owen sat beside me calm and expressionless, simply watching everything unfold.
Later, he told me he didn’t want Dana to cry—he just wanted her to feel, for one moment, the humiliation our mother lived with for months. Dad now says we ruined the most important day of his life, and Dana’s family calls us cruel. But I can’t bring myself to feel guilty. I didn’t plan Owen’s revenge, but I didn’t stop it either. After everything our mom endured alone, maybe letting it happen was the closest thing to justice we could give her.
