The Wedding Gift She’d Never Forget
When my brother announced his engagement, I was overjoyed—until he told me who he was marrying. The name hit me like a slap: Nancy. The girl who’d made my childhood a living nightmare. She might have thought time erased the past, but I had the perfect wedding gift to remind her that some scars never fade.
I was only eight years old when I learned that monsters don’t always hide under the bed. Sometimes, they sit right behind you in class, whispering poison with a smile.
Nancy wasn’t a bully who shoved or hit. She was far more dangerous. Her weapon was words—sharp, cutting, and always precise.
Teachers adored her. Parents praised her. My own mom would sigh and say, “Just ignore her, sweetheart.” But ignoring Nancy was like trying to ignore a mosquito buzzing in your ear—it never stopped.
By high school, I had learned the art of being invisible. I ate lunch alone, spoke to no one, and counted down the days to graduation like a prisoner marking time on the wall.
And when that day finally came, I ran. I moved two states away, buried my past, and built a quiet life—one where Nancy didn’t exist.
Until the phone call.
“Guess what?” my brother Matt said one evening, his voice full of excitement. “I’m engaged!”
I smiled instantly. “That’s amazing! Who’s the lucky girl?”
There was a small pause. Just long enough to make my heart tighten.
Then he said it.
“Nancy.”
The name froze me. “Wait… Nancy who?”
He laughed lightly, as if I was joking. “Nancy from high school! You remember her, right?”
Oh, I remembered. Every cruel laugh. Every whispered insult. Every time she made me cry in secret.
“She’s amazing,” Matt continued, oblivious. “Sweet, funny, kind—”
“She bullied me,” I cut in sharply.
The line went quiet.
“She made my life miserable,” I said slowly. “You never saw it because she was nice to you. But to me? She was awful.”
He sighed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, that was a long time ago. People change.”
I closed my eyes. Do they?
“Look, please come to the engagement party,” Matt pleaded. “It would mean a lot to me.”
I should’ve said no. But instead, I said, “Sure.”
I told myself I was grown now. I could handle it. People change. Right?
The engagement party was held at a fancy restaurant—warm lighting, polished glasses, soft music. I walked in, nerves tight in my chest.
Matt spotted me immediately. “You made it!” he said, hugging me tightly.
“Of course,” I smiled, though my stomach churned.
Then I saw her.
Nancy. Standing by the bar, radiant and elegant, champagne glass in hand. Her eyes locked on me, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.
“Well, well,” she said softly. “You actually showed up.”
I forced a polite smile. “I did.”
She tilted her head, giving me a once-over. “You always did surprise me.”
Her tone was sweet as honey—but I knew the venom underneath.
As the evening went on, she didn’t waste a moment. Every sentence from her lips was dipped in poison.
“I love that you still have the same haircut from high school! So nostalgic!”
“I heard you’re still single. That must be so freeing, right?”
Each time, she smiled brightly, her voice full of sugar. No one else noticed. Just me.
Then, when no one was watching, she leaned close and whispered, “Still the same little loser, huh? It’s almost cute.”
My heart pounded. But this time, I didn’t flinch.
Because I had changed. And she was about to find that out.
That night, lying in bed, I replayed every cruel moment she had ever given me. Every smirk. Every word. Every tear she caused. And then—like fate whispering an idea—I remembered the butterflies.
Freshman year, biology class. The teacher brought in live butterflies to teach us about metamorphosis. Nancy screamed so loudly she fell out of her chair. At first, we thought she was joking, but she ran from the room trembling, pale as a ghost.
Nancy had a deep, uncontrollable fear of butterflies.
And some fears never fade.
By morning, I had a plan.
I researched companies that sold live butterflies for weddings and events. They arrived in delicate boxes, ready to be released in a “magical moment.”
I ordered two hundred butterflies.
Delivery date: the evening Nancy and Matt would return from their honeymoon.
I paid extra for the courier to insist the box be opened indoors, saying it was too windy outside.
And I made sure the entire thing would be filmed.
Perfect.
The wedding was exactly what I expected—Nancy’s personal stage. She glowed under the spotlight, her smile blinding, her every move calculated for perfection.
“You made it!” she gushed, wrapping me in a fake hug. “I was so worried you’d back out.”
I smiled smoothly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She giggled, already scanning for the next person to impress.
All night, she kept up her little act—sweet smiles, sharp digs. But I stayed calm, sipping champagne. Because I knew what was waiting for her.
Toward the end of the reception, Nancy made her move.
“So,” she said loudly, catching everyone’s attention, “I noticed there’s no gift from you! I know you wouldn’t forget such an important day!”
A hush fell over the table.
I smiled, meeting her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t forget,” I said sweetly. “It’s something very special—and very expensive. It’s waiting for you at home.”
Her eyes sparkled with greed. “Really? What is it?”
I leaned in close, lowering my voice. “Something you’ll never forget.”
She laughed, satisfied, and turned away. I raised my glass in silent toast.
Later that night, Nancy and Matt returned home. On their doorstep sat a beautifully wrapped box with a tag that read: “With love.”
A kind delivery woman smiled and said, “These are delicate creatures, best opened indoors.”
Nancy’s face lit up with curiosity. “Oh, this must be from your sister!”
Matt smiled. “Let’s open it.”
The woman discreetly pressed “record” on her phone.
Nancy lifted the lid—and two hundred butterflies exploded into the air.
For one magical second, they shimmered like living jewels.
Then Nancy screamed.
A piercing, terrified scream that shook the walls. She stumbled backward, knocking over a lamp, swatting wildly at the harmless creatures fluttering around her.
“Get them off! GET THEM OFF!” she shrieked, tears streaming down her face.
Matt tried to calm her, shouting, “Nancy, they’re just butterflies!” but she was hysterical, gasping and sobbing, curling up on the floor as they danced around her.
The video caught everything—her shrieks, her panic, her terror.
The next morning, my phone rang.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Matt roared the second I answered. “You traumatized my wife!”
I yawned, pretending boredom. “Oh, now she’s traumatized? That’s funny.”
“This isn’t a joke!” he shouted. “She had a breakdown! She didn’t sleep all night! You—”
“Matt,” I interrupted, my voice suddenly cold. “Do you know how many nights I cried because of her? How many mornings I begged to stay home from school because she made my life miserable?”
He was silent.
“That was high school,” he said weakly. “You need to let it go.”
I smirked. “Sure. Just like she did, right? Oh wait—she didn’t.”
There was another long silence.
Then I said softly, “By the way… the whole thing’s on video. Her screaming, crying, running in circles over a few butterflies. It’s priceless. People love wedding fail videos.”
His breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
And then I hung up.
That was the last time I ever heard from Nancy. She vanished from my brother’s social media, and he stopped inviting me to family gatherings.
But that night, for the first time in years, I slept peacefully—no nightmares, no whispers, no ghosts from high school.
Just silence.
And sometimes, silence is the sweetest revenge of all.