My Stepsister Asked Me to Sew Dresses for Her Six Bridesmaids, Then Refused to Pay Me for the Materials and My Work

I had no clue that my stepsister Jade’s plea, when she called that Tuesday morning, would result in weeks of emotional stress, tiredness, and one of the most surprising lessons I’ve ever learned about silent justice and decency.

My phone rang with her name while I sat on the couch with my four-month-old son Max jumping in my lap while balancing burp cloths and baby bottles.

As half-sisters who grew up in different homes and were only related by title rather than love, we weren’t close.

But I did respond.

There was terror in her voice.

“I’m in a lot of trouble, Amelia.

I’ve tried everything, including online designers, bridal boutiques, and consultations, but to no avail.

Six custom bridesmaid dresses are required.

The wedding is in three weeks, and there are a variety of body shapes and particular tastes.

I recalled your incredible talent.

Would you please assist me?

I’ll give you good money.

I swear.

“I promise” was the last line that stuck with me.

I believed that this project might help us recover financially because my husband, Rio, had been working extra shifts and our baby fund was running low.

More than that, I believed that perhaps this would be the turning point in our relationship.

So, even though I was hesitant, I consented.

Three grueling weeks of nonstop sewing, frequent fittings, and persistent demands ensued.

Every bridesmaid had a distinct vision, which included flowing silhouettes, modest coverage, thigh-high slits, and plunging necklines.

Using my kitchen as a makeshift sewing studio, I worked with Max strapped to my chest, pinning hems while rocking him to sleep and sewing while feeding him.

I was still stitching at three in the morning most nights, my fingers sore and my vitality gone.

Rio was concerned as we spent $400 of the funds we had saved for Max’s winter clothing.

One night, he handed me a lukewarm cup of coffee and asked, “Are you sure she’s going to pay you?”

I answered, “She promised,” holding onto the hope that Jade would honor her vow.

But Jade hadn’t paid me back for even one spool of thread as the deadline drew near.

She always responded with evasive assurances when I brought it up: “Soon.”

“Following the nuptials.”

“It has simply been very busy.”

I clung to optimism and disregarded the warning signs.

I delivered the dresses—six exquisite, handmade gowns lined with silk—two days prior to the wedding.

I had given them everything I had.

Jade was hardly looking up from her phone when I got there.

She advised hanging them in the spare room.

“Will you not take a look at them?” Gently, I inquired.

Disinterested, she said, “I’m sure they’re adequate.”

Then the blow struck.

She chuckled as I mentioned payment.

“Remuneration?

Amelia, oh.

You gave me this as a wedding present, of course.

What else, outside a toaster, were you planning to gift me?”

I went cold.

“I spent the money we had saved for Max’s clothing.”

“Stop being dramatic,” she sneered.

“You’re not even employed.

You had stuff to do because of this.”

I sobbed in my car for half an hour before leaving in silence.

Rio’s face darkened at home.

“She took advantage of you.

Told you a lie.

Taken from you.”

I was too exhausted to fight.

I muttered, “Let’s just get through the wedding.”

It was a lovely ceremony.

Jade looked stunning in a luxury gown, but my clothes were the main attraction.

The bridesmaids’ unique and exquisite attire left everyone speechless.

I heard whispers of praise, and every compliment made Jade’s fake smile tighter.

Then I overheard her chatting to a friend at the bar: “Since having the baby, my stepsister has been desperate to feel useful.”

“For free, she will do anything.

Some people are simply simple to control.”

I was physically ill.

Despite my stomach turning, I said nothing.

Jade showed up at my table, in a panic, twenty minutes before the first dance.

Her underwear was visible since the back of her fancy dress had split.

With tears in her eyes, she pleaded, “Please, you are the only one who can make this better.”

I went with her to the bathroom and looked at the dress.

The fabric was torn and the stitching was shoddy.

Every restless night, every insult, and every dime I had spent on someone else’s fantasy came to mind.

Then I grabbed my emergency sewing kit from my purse and crouched on the bathroom floor, holding a needle in one hand, a phone light in the other, and baby wipes to cushion my knees.

The dress was perfect ten minutes later.

“You’re incredible,” she exhaled.