My Dad’s Wedding to His Mistress Was Painful – My Brother’s Secret Plan Stole the Show

At 25, I’m a social media manager, still learning how to navigate life after my family shattered. My 12-year-old brother, Ethan, used to be a joyful kid, always making origami birds for our mom with notes like “You’re my hero.” But after our dad’s betrayal, that spark faded, replaced by a quiet hurt we both carried.

Our dad, Greg, cheated on our mom with his office assistant, Vanessa. Mom found out one evening, coming home with a new succulent for the kitchen. She walked in to find Dad and Vanessa on our sofa, and the succulent hit the floor, pot breaking. “I can explain,” Dad said, but Mom just walked away, silent. The weeks after were brutal—Mom’s sobs echoed through the house. “Did you suspect anything?” she asked me once. I hadn’t, and the guilt stung.

A man standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

Mom fought to save their 22-year marriage, attending therapy alone, leaving voicemails Dad ignored. But he chose Vanessa, moving in with her a month after serving divorce papers. Ethan struggled most. “Why doesn’t Dad want us?” he asked one night. I held him, saying Dad still loved us, but my words felt hollow. Mom tried to stay strong, but she was fading, barely eating, crying over old family photos or a forgotten tie of Dad’s.

A year later, Dad called, acting like nothing was wrong, inviting Ethan and me to his wedding to Vanessa. “It’s a cozy garden event,” he said. “I need you both there.” I was floored. Celebrate with the woman who broke Mom’s heart? I told him I’d consider it. Ethan flat-out refused, saying he’d never watch Dad marry “that woman.” But our grandparents pressured us, talking about healing and family ties. “Don’t be bitter,” Grandpa said. Ethan gave in, but his calm resolve made me uneasy.

Weeks before, Ethan asked me to buy something online—itching powder, a prank item. “For a friend,” he said. I was busy and clicked “purchase” without a second thought. I should’ve probed, but part of me was angry too, tired of Mom’s pain being dismissed. On the wedding day, Ethan was quiet, wearing a crisp shirt and slacks. At Vanessa’s sister’s house, she was all charm, laughing with guests. Dad hugged us, saying our presence was everything. Ethan smiled politely, but I saw something in his eyes.

Before the ceremony, Ethan offered to hang Vanessa’s wedding cape, saying it might wrinkle. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said, handing it over. He slipped inside for a few minutes, returning empty-handed. I had a hunch but stayed silent, maybe because I wanted justice for Mom. During the ceremony, Vanessa started scratching, first subtly, then frantically. By the vows, she was red-faced, tugging at her cape. “Something’s burning,” she muttered, fleeing to change.

She returned in a random dress, trying to salvage the moment, but the ceremony felt flat, guests whispering. At the reception, Dad asked if I knew anything. “Maybe a fabric issue?” I said, not admitting I suspected Ethan’s prank. Driving home, Ethan said, “She didn’t cry, but she’ll always remember today, like Mom remembers her pain.” He’d wanted fairness, not cruelty. “Do you feel bad?” I asked. “No,” he said. “It’s even now.” Dad’s livid, demanding apologies. His family calls us spiteful. But I won’t apologize. I didn’t do it, but I didn’t stop it. After Mom’s suffering, I’m okay with that.

 

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