When my dad called to invite my brother Owen and me to his wedding—to the woman he left our mom for—I was stunned. The pain of his betrayal

was still raw, and the idea of celebrating their union felt like a cruel joke. My younger brother, just 12, flatly refused at first. But after relentless

pressure from extended family urging us to “be the bigger people,” he finally agreed. Still, something in his voice felt… off. Not sad. Not mature. Calculated.

After that, Owen changed. He didn’t lash out or cry—he got quiet. He stopped drawing, stopped talking, and started watching. A few weeks before the wedding,

he asked me to buy something on Amazon—prank itching powder. I didn’t ask why. Part of me didn’t want to know.

On the day of the wedding, he dressed calmly, smiled politely, and walked into that backyard ceremony like he had a mission.

At the wedding, everything looked like a Pinterest dream—flowers, acoustic music, pastel perfection. Dana, the bride,

was glowing in her designer robe, and our dad couldn’t stop beaming. But Owen wasn’t impressed. He was focused. When Dana took off her

embroidered white wedding jacket, Owen offered to hang it up. She smiled and handed it to him without question. He disappeared into the house with it.

Minutes later, Owen returned—calm, smiling, empty-handed. When I leaned over and asked what he did, he simply replied, “Don’t ask.

You don’t want to know.” But I did know. I knew exactly what I had ordered for him. And as the ceremony began, I realized my

quiet little brother hadn’t just come to witness our father’s perfect day—he had come to ruin it, one invisible prank at a time.