Some people say revenge isn’t sweet, but they’ve clearly never been bullied by their future sister-in-law. When my brother announced his engagement to Nancy—the girl who made my school years a living hell—I knew I couldn’t let this marriage begin without reminding her that karma has impeccable timing.
Nancy wasn’t the type of bully who left visible bruises. Her cruelty was quieter, sharper. She mastered the art of backhanded compliments and whispered insults that teachers never caught. “I love how you don’t care what people think about your clothes,” she’d say loudly in the cafeteria. Or my personal favorite: “It’s so brave of you to speak up in class when you’re clearly unprepared.”
I spent years shrinking under her comments before finally escaping to college out of state. For a decade, I thought I’d never see her again—until my brother’s excited phone call. “You remember Nancy from school, right?” he asked cheerfully. My stomach dropped.
At their engagement party, Nancy’s mask of perfection slipped the moment we were alone. “Still the same little loser,” she murmured under the clink of champagne glasses. That’s when I knew: the queen bee hadn’t changed. She’d just gotten better at hiding her stinger.
That night, I remembered one vulnerability Nancy could never outgrow—her paralyzing fear of butterflies. A little research led me to a company that delivers live butterflies for special occasions. Two hundred winged beauties arrived at the newlyweds’ doorstep the night they returned from their honeymoon, packaged as an elegant gift.
The video the delivery person sent me was priceless. Nancy’s shrieks could’ve shattered glass as the harmless creatures fluttered around their living room. My brother’s furious call the next morning was even better. “She’s traumatized!” he yelled.
“Funny,” I replied calmly. “So was I. For twelve years.”
The silence that followed was sweeter than any wedding cake.
