That night, memories flooded back — every humiliation, every smirk, every stolen ounce of confidence. And then I remembered her fear: butterflies. Freshman year, she had screamed and cried when one landed near her in biology class, a reaction that had become a legendary story among classmates.
By morning, I had arranged for two hundred live butterflies to be delivered to Nancy and Matt’s home after their honeymoon, with instructions to open the box indoors. I even arranged for the event to be filmed.
At the wedding, Nancy shone brilliantly, radiating charm and confidence. She ensured everyone noticed my lack of a gift. I smiled calmly and whispered that something unforgettable awaited her at home.
When the butterflies arrived, Nancy opened the box with giddy excitement — until they swarmed her. Screaming, flailing, stumbling, she was overtaken by the fear she had tried so hard to hide. Matt tried to calm her, but it was chaos: a storm of delicate wings and frantic shrieks, all captured on video.
The next morning, my phone rang. Matt was furious. “What did you do? She had a breakdown!”
I replied lightly, “Oh, so now she knows what that feels like.”
He shouted, “You have to let it go!”
I laughed. “Funny — that’s exactly what she said to me at the engagement party.”
Silence followed. Then I added, “By the way, it’s all on video. Quite the spectacle. Maybe it’ll go viral.”
Nancy never came back into my life. Within months, she vanished from my brother’s world. For the first time in years, I slept peacefully, knowing that some lessons, like some fears, never truly fade — and sometimes, justice comes on wings.
