My dad had no idea that he would soon regret inviting my brother and me to his wedding to the woman he cheated on our mother with.
When my dad invited my 12-year-old brother, Owen, and me to his wedding, I dreaded watching him marry the woman who destroyed our family. My name’s Tessa.
Owen used to be sweet and innocent, but after Dad’s affair with Dana, that softness disappeared. Mom suffered in silence, losing weight and crying over small things, while Dad moved in with Dana just three weeks after serving divorce papers.
When Dad called about the wedding, Owen refused. After pressure from grandparents, he reluctantly agreed. Two weeks before the wedding, he asked me to order itching powder. I didn’t question it.
On the day, Dana looked radiant, but when Owen offered to hang her jacket, the powder took effect. During the ceremony, her skin broke out, and she bolted inside, embarrassed. She returned later in a messy dress, humiliated.
Owen didn’t want her to cry—just to feel a fraction of Mom’s pain. Dad won’t speak to us, Dana’s family calls us “evil,” and our grandparents demand an apology. I didn’t pour the powder, but I let it happen. Watching Mom’s suffering ignored, I think Owen’s justice was deserved.
I’m not sorry.
