When my dad invited my 12-year-old brother Owen and me to his wedding, I expected pain—watching him marry the woman who shattered our family. I didn’t expect Owen’s quiet revenge.

After our dad left Mom for Dana, everything changed. Mom broke down, and Owen, once full of light, grew distant.

Despite refusing at first, pressure from family convinced us to attend. Two weeks before, Owen asked me to buy itching powder. I didn’t ask why.

On the wedding day, Owen offered to hang Dana’s jacket. Minutes later, during the ceremony, she began uncontrollably scratching. Humiliated, she fled, then returned in a backup dress, blotchy and shaken.

Later, Owen told me, “She didn’t cry like Mom did. But she’ll remember.”

We never apologized. Dad hasn’t called. Dana’s family hates us.

Maybe it was petty.

But in a world that asked Mom to quietly suffer, Owen gave back just a sliver of that pain.

No—we’re not sorry.