Anya’s wedding dress was her “something new,” a simple, elegant gown with a single, flowing train. She had hung it in her parents’ closet, safely tucked away until the big day. But one morning, her younger cousin, an attention-seeking teenager named Lexi, asked if she could try it on “for fun.” Anya, caught off guard, said no. Lexi, enraged, stormed off.
The next day, Anya discovered the damage: a long, perfectly straight line of scorched fabric running down the middle of the dress. The iron marks were unmistakable. She knew it was Lexi.
Anya’s revenge was simple and swift. She had already had a beautiful custom-made wedding dress. She simply took the dress to a tailor, had the scorch mark removed, and had the dress returned to her. The damage was not as bad as she had thought, and she had a new, even more beautiful dress.
But her revenge was in her silence. On the wedding day, she wore the new dress, a beautiful, unique creation that had been remade with a beautiful new piece of fabric. She said nothing, not a single word, about what had happened. Lexi, who had expected a big fight, was left confused and anxious. She couldn’t ask Anya about it, and she had to watch from the sidelines as Anya, in her beautiful new dress, walked down the aisle.
The lack of a fight was the most powerful revenge. Lexi was forced to carry the weight of her guilt alone. She had ruined a beautiful dress, and no one had said a word. She was forced to live with her own guilt. The revenge was a quiet, internal one.
