When my dad called to invite my 12-year-old brother Owen and me to his wedding, I assumed the hardest part would be watching him marry the woman he had an affair with—the woman who tore our family apart. I never imagined that my quiet little brother was planning something that would leave a permanent mark on their big day.

My name is Tessa, I’m 25 and working as a marketing coordinator, still trying to piece together what it means to be an adult after our childhood got yanked away without warning. Owen used to be the most gentle, kind-hearted kid—he made Mother’s Day cards covered in glitter and stickers, left snacks for delivery drivers, and cried over cartoon animals getting hurt. But after everything that happened, I saw that sweetness get buried deeper each day. Our dad, Evan, cheated on our mom with a woman from his accounting firm named Dana—the picture-perfect coworker with the white teeth and immaculate hair. Mom found out the day she came home early from grocery shopping with a plant in her hands, hoping to surprise Dad with dinner.

Instead, she walked in and found him and Dana on the couch. The ceramic pot slipped from her hands and shattered on the hardwood, just like our lives did. Dad tried to explain, but Mom said nothing and just walked upstairs. What followed was a whirlwind of screaming, crying, and pleading. Mom sat at the kitchen table with tissues strewn everywhere, eyes swollen, asking me if I had seen the signs. I hadn’t, but I wished I had. She tried so hard to salvage the marriage—counseling alone, nightly prayers, heartfelt letters—but Dad moved in with Dana just three weeks after handing Mom the divorce papers, erasing 22 years for someone he barely knew eight months. I remember Owen sitting beside me in the dark asking, “Does Dad love her more than us?”

I had no idea what to say. I told him Dad loved us and was just confused, but even I didn’t buy that. Mom tried to hold it together but slowly unraveled. She lost weight, barely ate, and cried over the smallest things like finding Dad’s old mug or struggling to match Tupperware lids. Then, out of nowhere, Dad called again. “Hey sweetheart! Dana and I are getting married next month. Backyard ceremony at her sister’s. We’d love to have you and Owen there—it would mean the world.” I stood frozen in my kitchen, trying not to laugh or scream. He wanted us to be part of his “new chapter” like we were just characters in a story he was rewriting.

@redditstories_doggo My dad cheated on my terminally-ill mother while she had breast cancer and then got together with this affair partner less than 1/2 a year after she passed away, so I moved out, and now he wants me to attend their wedding to “mend our relationship.” Yeah, no thanks. Plus two updates. #reddit #redditstories #redditreadings #redditdoggo #storytime ♬ original sound – reddit doggo

When I told Owen, he refused. “I don’t care if the Pope invited me. I’m not watching Dad marry the woman who broke Mom.” But our grandparents got involved, guilt-tripping us with talks of forgiveness and maturity. Eventually, Owen gave in. “Fine. I’ll come to the stupid wedding.” But I sensed something brewing. Two weeks before the wedding, Owen came into my room with his iPad. “Can you order something for me from Amazon?” It was itching powder. I asked if he was planning a school prank. He shrugged. I clicked “Buy Now,” distracted with work. Deep down, I knew. I could’ve stopped him. I didn’t. I didn’t ask because I wanted someone—anyone—to feel a piece of what Mom felt. The morning of the wedding, Owen was calm. Too calm. He dressed without fuss, stayed quiet, and when we arrived, he politely offered to hang Dana’s wedding jacket. She smiled and handed it over. He disappeared into the house for five minutes and returned empty-handed. “It’s hanging up safely,” he told her. At 4 p.m., the ceremony began. Dana walked down the aisle glowing. But a few minutes in, she started scratching—first her arms, then her neck. Her expression cracked. By the time they reached the vows, she was visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting, red-faced, and unable to stop scratching. “I… I do,” she stammered before fleeing into the house. Guests whispered, confused. She returned in a different outfit, flustered and embarrassed, and the rest of the ceremony was stiff and awkward. At the reception, Dad pulled me aside. “What was that? Dana’s skin looked like it was on fire.” I shrugged. “Maybe the detergent or polyester?” I let him connect the dots. In the car on the way home, Owen said, “She didn’t cry. But she’ll remember today. Just like Mom remembers finding them.” He didn’t want revenge. He wanted her to feel powerless for once. “Do you feel bad?” I asked. He said, “No. It feels more even now.” Dad won’t speak to us. Dana’s family says we’re wicked. Our grandparents say we owe apologies. But I haven’t apologized. I didn’t plan it—but I didn’t stop it. I let it happen. Because in a world where no one stood up for our mother, maybe this was the only justice she’d get. Maybe that makes me awful. Maybe not. But I’m not sorry.