When my brother announced his engagement, I was thrilled—until he revealed he was marrying Nancy, the girl who made my childhood miserable. I’d learned early on that some monsters hide in plain sight. Nancy wasn’t a bully who resorted to physical blows; she used her words like a scalpel, cutting deep while everyone else saw only a charming girl. While teachers praised her and my parents advised me to ignore her, her relentless whispers made high school unbearable.
After moving away and building a life without her, I hardly thought of Nancy—until my brother called. “I’m engaged!” he said excitedly. When he mentioned Nancy’s name, my stomach twisted. I tried to remind him of her cruelty, but he insisted people change.
At his engagement party, in an upscale restaurant filled with laughter and clinking glasses, I felt uneasy. Nancy appeared by the bar, polished and smiling, greeting me with a tone that mixed surprise and subtle mockery. As the night unfolded, she continued with backhanded compliments—reminding me of the past I had worked so hard to escape.
Then a memory struck me: freshman biology, when a live butterfly display triggered Nancy’s irrational terror. That moment sparked my perfect plan. I arranged for two hundred live butterflies to be delivered in a beautifully wrapped box at the wedding, ensuring the box would be opened indoors.
At the reception, as Nancy opened the gift, the butterflies burst forth. The room fell silent before she erupted in screams and panic, her terror overwhelming the celebration. My brother, frantic and confused, later called me in fury. I coolly reminded him of the years I’d spent in torment and casually mentioned the video of her breakdown—enough to make him hesitate.
That was the last I heard from Nancy. For the first time in years, I finally slept peacefully.
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