My name is Tessa, 25. A week ago, my dad—after betraying my mom with a coworker named Dana—invited my 12-year-old brother Owen and me to his backyard wedding. My heart froze at the thought of attending the woman who tore our family apart.
But Owen… Owen had other plans.
On the morning of the wedding, he was eerily calm. No fury, no tears—just a quiet resolve. He even asked me to order “something from Amazon,” handing me a bag of itching powder disguised as a harmless prank.
The ceremony began beautifully. Dana floated down the aisle in a white jacket, radiant and smug. But within minutes, her smile started to crumble. She scratched her arms, tugged at her collar—her face flushing.
Then she bolted.
Outrage rippled through the guests. Dana reemerged, red-faced and in a different outfit, desperately trying to salvage the moment, but the damage was done.
Later, Owen confided in me: “She’ll never forget how helpless she felt that day—like Mom did. Maybe now things feel more even.”
Our dad was furious, calling us “evil” and threatening to cut us off. Relatives begged us not to cause more scandal. But I couldn’t bring myself to apologize—for the first time, Owen felt justice.
