When my brother announced he was engaged, I was thrilled—until he said he was marrying Nancy, the girl who made my childhood hell. She thought the past was forgotten. I had the perfect wedding gift to remind her it wasn’t.
Nancy wasn’t a typical bully. She never hit or shoved—just whispered cruel words behind smiles. Teachers adored her. My parents told me to ignore her. But Nancy was relentless. By high school, I was invisible, counting the days until I could leave.
Years passed. I built a life far from her—until my brother called.
“I’m engaged! To Nancy,” he said, too cheerfully.
I was stunned. “She bullied me,” I told him. He brushed it off. “People change.”
I went to the engagement party anyway. She hadn’t changed. Her smile was fake, her compliments sharp-edged. “Still single? So freeing, right?” she purred. Later, in a low voice only I could hear: “Still the same little loser.”
That night, I remembered something: her phobia of butterflies from freshman biology class. She’d screamed and fled the room. Some fears don’t fade.
I ordered 200 live butterflies, scheduled to be delivered to their home after the wedding—with strict instructions they be opened indoors. Filmed, of course.
The wedding was all about her, as expected. Toward the end, she loudly noted I hadn’t given a gift.
“Oh, I did,” I said sweetly. “It’s at your house.”
That night, she opened the box. Butterflies swarmed. She screamed, panicked, and sobbed in full-blown terror. The handler caught it all on camera.
The next day, my brother called, furious. “You traumatized her!”
“And how many nights did I cry because of her?” I replied.
“That was high school!”
“So was her behavior—yesterday.”
“Oh,” I added, “there’s a video. Maybe I’ll post it. People love wedding fails.”
He never called again.
And that night, for the first time in years, I slept like a baby.