When my stepsister asked me to sew six custom bridesmaid dresses, I said yes. I thought maybe, just maybe, it would help us bond. I even dipped into my baby fund—four hundred dollars meant for my son Max’s winter clothes—to buy the fabric and supplies.
But when I finally delivered the dresses, she called it my “gift” and laughed when I asked to be paid. I thought I’d never get justice—until karma came knocking at the perfect time.
It all started on a Tuesday morning. I was bouncing four-month-old Max on my hip when my phone rang.
“Amelia? It’s Jade. I desperately need your help.”
I shifted Max to my other arm, wincing when his tiny fist yanked a chunk of my hair. “What’s going on?”
“You know I’m getting married next month, right? Well, I’ve been to twelve boutiques and still can’t find bridesmaid dresses that look good on all six of my girls. Different body types, you know? Then I remembered—you’re amazing with that sewing machine. Your work looks professional.”
“Jade, I’m not really—”
“Could you make them for me? Please? I’ll pay you really well. You’d literally be saving my whole wedding. I’m desperate.”
We weren’t close. Different mothers, different lives. But she was still family… in a way.
“How much time do I have?” I asked.
“Three weeks. I know it’s tight, but you’re so talented. Remember that dress you made for cousin Lia’s graduation? Everyone was asking who designed it.”
Max gnawed on my shirt collar as I thought about our situation. Our baby fund was running low. My husband Rio was working double shifts, but bills were stacking up. Maybe this could help.
“What’s your budget for materials and labor? Six custom dresses is a lot of work.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that right now. We’ll figure it out later. I promise I’ll pay you.”
I hesitated, then said, “Alright. I’ll do it.”
The first bridesmaid, Sarah, came on Thursday. She was tall, curvy, and very opinionated.
“I absolutely hate high necklines,” she said, scanning my sketch. “They make me look like a nun. Can we go much lower?”
“Of course,” I said, adjusting the design.
“Perfect. And take the waist in here and here. I want it really fitted.”
Friday brought petite Emma—who wanted the opposite.
“This neckline is way too low,” she frowned. “I’ll look inappropriate. Can we make it higher? And the waist needs to be looser. I don’t like tight clothes.”
“No problem. We’ll adjust.”
“Oh, and the sleeves—longer. I hate my arms.”
Saturday was Jessica’s turn, an athletic woman with her own demands.
“I want a slit up the thigh. High. And the bust needs more structure for support.”
Soon the girls were clashing over every detail.
Sarah wanted “flowy around the hips.” Emma hated the color. Jessica complained, “This fabric feels cheap. It’s not going to photograph well.”
Meanwhile, Max cried every two hours. I’d feed him with one hand while pinning hems with the other. I worked until three in the morning, my back aching.
Rio would find me passed out at the kitchen table. “You’re killing yourself for this,” he said one night, setting coffee in front of me. “You spent $400 of our baby money, Amelia.”
“I know. But it’s almost done.”
Two days before the wedding, I delivered the dresses. Six perfect, custom-made gowns.
Jade barely looked up from her phone. “Just hang them in the spare room.”
“Don’t you want to see them?” I asked.
“I’m sure they’re adequate.”
Adequate. Three weeks of work, sleepless nights, and $400 gone—and they were “adequate.”
“So about the payment—”
She looked confused. “Payment? What payment?”
“You said you’d cover materials and labor.”
“Oh honey, this is your wedding gift to me! I mean, what else would you give me? A blender? A picture frame?”
“Jade, that was Max’s winter coat money—”
“Don’t be dramatic. You don’t even have a job right now. I gave you a fun project to keep busy.”
Her words hit like ice water.
“I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks.”
“Welcome to parenthood! Now, I need to get ready. Thanks for the dresses!”
I sat in my car and cried until my face was swollen. Rio was furious.
“She used you, Amelia. That’s theft.”
“I know. But starting a fight before her wedding will just make it worse.”
“This isn’t over,” he said.
The wedding was beautiful. Jade sparkled in her designer gown, but the real talk of the reception? My dresses.
“Who designed these?” guests whispered. “They’re gorgeous.”
I saw Jade’s jaw tighten every time. Then I overheard her bragging to a friend near the bar.
“Honestly, the dresses were basically free. My stepsister’s stuck at home with the baby—she’s easy to manipulate.”
Her friend laughed. “Genius. Free designer work.”
My blood boiled.
Then, twenty minutes before the first dance, Jade rushed over.
“Amelia, it’s an emergency!” She dragged me into the bathroom. Her expensive gown had split completely down the back—white lace underwear on full display.
“I’ll be humiliated! Please, you’re the only one who can fix this!”
The irony was almost too much. Still, I pulled out my sewing kit.
“Stand still. Don’t breathe too deeply.”
Ten minutes later, the dress was flawless.
“Thank God. You’re a lifesaver,” she said, heading for the door.
“Wait,” I told her. “You owe me one thing. Not money—truth. Tell people I made those dresses. Tell them what really happened.”
She left without answering. I thought that was it.
But during her speech, she surprised me.
“I treated my stepsister like her talent meant nothing,” she said. “I promised to pay her for six custom dresses, then called it her gift. She used her baby’s coat money for my materials, and I was selfish. Tonight, when my dress ripped, she saved me anyway. She didn’t deserve my treatment.”
She handed me an envelope. “This is what I owe you—plus extra for Max. I’m sorry, Amelia.”
The applause was loud, but all I heard was my heartbeat. It wasn’t about the money. It was about finally being seen.
Sometimes justice isn’t about revenge. Sometimes it’s about holding your head high, even when you’re helping someone who doesn’t deserve it—and letting the truth do the rest.