My fiancé’s sister, Kara, was spoiled. When her wedding venue flooded, she and her mom turned to me.
“This is perfect! My wedding, your yard!” Kara said.
I loved that yard—roses my mom planted, a stone walkway I built. I agreed, hoping they’d respect it.
When I returned, it was gone. Fence ripped out, roses stripped, walkway buried under tents. Kara beamed. Colin shrugged.
The next day, I handed Kara a red box. She opened it and went pale. Inside were photos of my yard, every rose, the fence, the walkway… and a framed picture of my mom with a note:
“You took something irreplaceable. Now every rose will remind you of it.”
Guests gasped. Kara couldn’t speak. Colin stayed silent.
Two weeks later, I moved out. Kara and Colin went on their honeymoon, but the town already knew how she’d treated me. Her bouquet wilted, photos failed, and her wedding planning “business” flopped.
Love isn’t letting someone destroy what you’ve built. Sometimes revenge is quiet—a red box of memories and truth.
