When my parents divorced after my dad’s affair, my younger brother Owen and I watched our mother struggle deeply. A year later, Dad invited us to his wedding—to the same woman who had been involved in the breakup. At first, Owen refused to go, but pressure from relatives eventually made him agree. What I didn’t know was that my usually quiet brother had his own plan for the day.
On the morning of the wedding, Owen was calm but distant. Before the ceremony, he offered to hang up the bride’s white jacket, which she had left on a chair. She thanked him and carried on with preparations. Unknown to anyone at the time, this was the moment Owen quietly set his plan into motion.
During the vows, the bride began scratching her arms and neck, her smile fading as she became visibly uncomfortable. Guests whispered, wondering if she was having an allergic reaction. She eventually left mid-ceremony, returning in a different outfit, her skin still red. The mood had shifted, and the rest of the day felt awkward and subdued.
On the drive home, Owen told me he hadn’t wanted to hurt her badly—just to ensure she’d remember her wedding day with the same humiliation our mother had felt when the affair was exposed. Our father hasn’t spoken to us since, and relatives think we owe an apology. But I didn’t stop Owen, and I don’t regret it. In my mind, it was a small measure of justice for the pain our mom endured.