Off The Record
My Dad Invited Us To Marry The Woman He Cheated On Mom With — He Never Expected What Happened Next
I believed that the worst part would be witnessing my father wed the lady who ruined our family when he called to ask my 12-year-old brother and me to his wedding. I was unaware that my quiet younger brother had been organizing a memorable event for their special day.
Tessa is my name.
As a twenty-five-year-old marketing coordinator, I’m still figuring out what it means to be an adult when childhood ends too soon.
Owen, my younger brother, is twelve years old.
He was the sweetest, happiest child I ever knew. The kind that cries when cartoon characters are harmed and sets cookies out for delivery people.
He would add, “Tessa, look what I made for Mom,” displaying some clay sculpture or crayon picture from art class.
Using glitter and stickers, he would handwrite phrases like “You’re the best mom in the universe” on her Mother’s Day cards for hours on end.
However, I saw that tenderness gradually buried following what occurred to our family. As if he had lost something harmless.
Evan, our father, had been having an affair with a woman at work. Dana was her name. Dana, who worked at his accounting firm, had a brilliant white smile and flawless hair. One Thursday afternoon, my mom returned home early from grocery shopping and told her.
With dirt still on her hands from repotting it in the car, she held a little plant from Home Depot. She entered the living room with the intention of surprising Dad with his favorite meal.
She discovered him and Dana on our couch instead.
The way she dropped that plant will always stick in my memory. As if she had been scorched. She just stood there, staring as the porcelain pot broke on the hardwood floor.
Dad leaped to his feet and buttoned his shirt, saying, “Linda, I can explain,”
Mom, however, said nothing. She simply turned and approached their bedroom.
The mayhem and ugliness that ensued were worse than anything I had ever seen in a movie. For weeks, there was wailing, screaming, and pleading. Mom would be sitting at the kitchen table with tissues all over the place, her eyes swollen and red, when I got home from work.
She once said, “Did you know?” to me. “Did you see signs I missed?”
I wanted I had known, but I didn’t. Perhaps I could have alerted her in some way.
For weeks after learning the truth, my mother continued to believe she could make everything right. When Dad wouldn’t go to counseling, she went by herself.
Like Owen and I did when we were little, she knelt next to their bed and prayed every night. She wrote him lengthy letters outlining her love for him and how they might resolve their differences.
She told me, “22 years, Tessa,” one evening as she was folding his clothes. “We’ve been together since college. That has to mean something to him.”
However, it didn’t.
Three weeks after serving Mom with the divorce papers, Dad moved in with Dana. As simple as that. For a woman he had known for eight months, twenty-two years were gone.
“Does Dad love her more than us?” Owen whispered into the darkness as he sat in our bedroom the first night after Dad had packed his belongings.
I had nothing to say. How can you explain to a twelve-year-old that selfish decisions made by adults can have negative effects on everyone around them?
I said, “He loves us, Owen. He’s just confused right now,” but I wasn’t sure I honestly believed it.
“Then why doesn’t he want to live with us anymore?”
I kissed his forehead while holding him. “I don’t know, buddy. I really don’t know.”
I could see Mom disintegrating, even though she was trying to keep it together for us. In just three months, she shed twenty pounds while consuming only tea and crackers. Even the tiniest things would make her cry, such as a family-themed commercial, discovering one of Dad’s old coffee mugs in the back of the cabinet, or failing to locate the lid for a Tupperware container.
Suddenly, a year after the divorce, a wedding takes place. On a Tuesday night, my dad phones me, seeming friendly and relaxed, as if we were simply catching up over coffee.
“Hey, sweetheart! How’s work going?”
“Fine, Dad. What’s up?”
“Well, I wanted to let you know that Dana and I are getting married next month. It’s going to be a backyard ceremony at her sister’s house. Simple, but nice. I want you and Owen there. It would mean the world to me to have my kids celebrating with us.”
I wanted to yell or laugh as I stood in my kitchen with the phone. or both.
Slowly, I continued, “You want us at your wedding,”
“Of course! You’re my children. This is a new chapter for all of us, and I’d love for you to be part of it.”
A fresh chapter. As if our family were really a draft that he might edit.
When I said, “I’ll think about it,”
“Great! I’ll send you the details. Love you, Tess.”
Before I could reply, he hung up.
At first, Owen flatly rejected the invitation when I told him about it.
He continued playing his computer game without raising his head. “I don’t care if the Pope invited me,” he remarked. “I’m not going to watch Dad marry the woman who ruined our family.”
However, our grandparents then became involved. Dad’s parents phoned each of us separately and lectured us on the need of family harmony and forgiveness.
“Holding onto anger will only hurt you in the long run,” grandmother advised. “Your father made mistakes, but he’s still your father. Showing up would be the mature thing to do.”
Grandpa went on, “Consider how this appears to everyone.” “Do you want people thinking you kids are bitter and vindictive?”
Eventually, after days of family pressure and guilt lectures about “being the bigger person,” Owen gave in.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll come to the stupid wedding.”
But I was uneasy about something in his speech. I had never heard of such a determination before.
Owen didn’t say a word the morning of the wedding. Not as offended or furious as I had anticipated. Simply be silent.
Without being prompted, he changed into his khakis and navy button-down shirt.
I slipped on my earrings and said, “You okay, buddy?”
He answered, “Yeah. I’m fine,” but he avoided looking into my eyes.
When he entered my room with his iPad two weeks prior to the wedding, I should have known something was up.
“Tessa, can you order something from Amazon for me? I don’t have an account set up yet.”
I asked, not really listening, “What is it?” I was occupied responding to emails for work.
He swung the screen in my direction. powder for itching. It’s one of those gag presents you find at novelty shops. The kind that, when touched, makes your skin crawl.
“You trying to prank your friends at school?” I responded.
He gave a shrug. “Yeah. Something like that.”
I ought to have inquired further. I should have questioned my calm, somber younger brother’s sudden desire for prank materials.
But it seemed harmless enough, and I was preoccupied.
I answered, “Sure, I’ll order it,” and without hesitation, I clicked “Buy Now”.
I’m not a moron anymore. In retrospect, I sensed something. An intense suspicion of what he might be up to. I didn’t say no, though. His explanation was not requested. I didn’t stop him.
Why?
Because it crushed my heart to pieces to see our mother suffer in quiet during the divorce.
Because I wanted someone to experience even a small portion of the misery and humiliation she endured.
As asked, we got to Dana’s sister’s house early on the wedding day.
While checking arrangements with the wedding coordinator and pretending to joke with her bridesmaids, Dana was pacing the patio in a white silk robe. She appeared radiant and totally at ease.
Dad saw us right away and came over grinning broadly.
His words, “There are my kids! You both look so grown up,” drew us into awkward, rigid hugs.
“Thanks for coming, guys. This really means everything to me.”
“We wouldn’t miss it, Dad,” Owen remarked courteously, gazing up at him with those large brown eyes.
But there was something in his voice that I heard. Something flat that Dad didn’t even notice.
Dana was retouching her cosmetics about an hour before the ceremony when Owen came up to her. He had on his most naive face and was holding a garment bag.
“Hi, Dana,” he said in a kind manner. “You look really beautiful.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you, Owen! That’s so sweet of you to say.”
“I was wondering,” he said, “do you want me to hang up your jacket, so it doesn’t get wrinkled? I noticed you left it on the chair, and I thought it might get messed up.”
Dana looked at a patio chair with her white wedding jacket hanging over it. “Oh, that’s so thoughtful! Yes, please. You’re such a helpful young man.”
As she checked her phone for messages from the photographer, she gave him the jacket.
With a smile, Owen responded, “I’ll take really good care of it.”
For almost five minutes, he vanished inside the house. He was calm and empty-handed when he returned to the outside.
He said, “All set,” to Dana. “It’s hanging up safely.”
Her words, “You’re an angel,” ruffled his hair.
At 4 p.m., the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Guests were settling into the decked garden around 3:30 p.m. Dana had vanished to change into her last garment.
With his hands folded in his lap like he was at church, Owen sat still next to me in the second row.
I said in a whisper, “You good?”
He gave one nod. “I’m good.”
After that, the music began, and Dana emerged looking stunning.
She smiled at each of the guests as she confidently made her way down the makeshift aisle. Dad looked like he had won the lotto as he stood at the altar.
The officiant opened with a few general remarks about new beginnings and love.
However, something changed about the third minute of the ceremony.
Dana was a little twitchy at first. Once, then twice, she scratched her left arm. Then she began fiddling with her collar. Her dazzling grin started to waver slightly.
She appeared truly uneasy by the time they reached the vows. She was moving her weight from foot to foot, scratching both arms, and pulling at the collar of her jacket.
The officiant inquired, “Do you, Dana Michelle, take Evan Robert to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She responded, “I… yes, I do,” but it was obvious that she was preoccupied. Scratching behind her neck, then both shoulders, she reached up.
The visitors began to take notice. “Is she having some kind of allergic reaction?” my aunt Rachel whispered as she leaned over to her husband.
Owen sat motionless next to me. His hands were still folded in his lap, his expression blank. He was neither gloating nor grinning. He did nothing except observe.
Dana’s uneasiness rapidly increased.
Her face was turning red, and she was scratching all over.
Dad interrupted the script to ask softly, “Are you okay, honey?”
Dana remarked, “I… I think something’s wrong,” “My skin is burning.”
In a desperate attempt to remove the jacket from her shoulders, she pulled at it. “I need to… excuse me.”
Before they could exchange vows, Dana ran away, her bridesmaids following her as she hurried into the house.
There were bewildered murmurs in the backyard. The guests were staring at one another and trying to figure out what had happened.
After fifteen minutes, Dana came out of the house wearing an entirely new attire.
She was dressed casually in a beige dress that appeared to have been thrown from a wardrobe. Her skin was still red and inflamed, her hair was disheveled, and her makeup was smudged.
She said, “Sorry, everyone,” in an attempt to sound cheerful. “I had a reaction to something. But let’s finish this!”
The atmosphere was utterly ruined. There were still half the visitors mumbling and muttering to each other. The photographer seems perplexed. As he attempted to continue where they had left off, even the officiant appeared shaken.
The remainder of the ceremony seemed hurried and unnatural.
Dad drew me aside by the dessert table at the reception.
“Tessa, do you have any idea what that was about? Dana’s skin was bright red, like it was burning her. She’s never had allergic reactions before.”
I took a sip of my punch and shrugged. “Maybe she’s allergic to polyester? Or maybe it was the laundry detergent whoever washed the jacket used?”
In reality, I never lied. I simply let him make his own judgments.
He said, “That’s so weird,” and shook his head. “Of all the days for something like that to happen…”
“Yeah,” I said. “Really unfortunate timing.”
Owen sat silently in the passenger seat of the automobile that night while it drove home, gazing out the window.
At last, he faced me and remarked, “She didn’t cry, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dana didn’t cry. She was embarrassed and uncomfortable, but she didn’t cry. Mom cried for months.”
“But she’ll remember today,” Owen added in a low voice. “Every time she thinks about her wedding day, she’ll remember feeling humiliated and out of control. Just like Mom remembers finding them together.”
It dawned on me then that my 12-year-old brother had a surprising understanding of fairness. He didn’t want to cause Dana any pain or tears. All he wanted was for her to experience the same sense of helplessness and embarrassment that our mother experienced.
I asked him, “Do you feel bad about it?”
Owen pondered for a while. “No. I feel like things are a little more even now.”
After two weeks, our dad has stopped talking to us. He claims that the most significant day of his life was wrecked by us.
We are being referred to by Dana’s family as “evil children” who require counseling. Our grandparents claim that we have embarrassed the entire family and that we owe them both a heartfelt apology.
I haven’t apologized, though. I won’t, either.
since Owen’s actions were not planned by me. I didn’t put the powder in Dana’s jacket or pour it in. However, I also failed to halt it when I could have.
I simply allowed it to occur.
And I believe that’s acceptable in a society where everyone who ought to have shielded our mother from harm chose to ignore, disregard, and forget her suffering.
Perhaps that makes me a bad person. Perhaps I ought to have acted like the responsible adult and prevented my younger brother from pursuing justice in his own way.
However, I can’t force myself to feel bad when I imagine Mom sitting by herself and crying after Dad abandoned her.
Should I have stopped Owen? To be honest, I have no idea. I’m not sorry, though.
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