I’ve never told anyone this. Not my closest friends, not even my therapist. It’s too raw, too humiliating, too… infuriating. But it eats at me, a bitter poison, and I have to get it out.
It started innocently enough, or so I thought. My stepsister was getting married, a big, lavish affair she’d been planning since she was a teenager. She knew I had a knack for sewing, a real passion. It started as a hobby, turned into a side hustle, and I was actually pretty good. My custom designs had even won local competitions. So when she approached me, beaming, her request didn’t immediately set off alarm bells.
“Oh my gosh, you HAVE to do my bridesmaids’ dresses!” she’d gushed, pulling me into a tight hug that smelled of expensive perfume. “You’re the only one I trust to make them perfect. Six of them! And don’t worry, obviously, I’ll cover all the material costs, and your time. I know how busy you are, but this would mean the world to me.”
A pensive woman standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney
My time. That was the key. She knew I was saving, scrimping for tuition to go back to school. Every extra dollar counted. This felt like a gift, a chance to help family and earn some much-needed funds. I smiled, feeling a genuine warmth spread through me. “Of course,” I told her. “I’d be honored.”
Honored. HA.
The design was intricate, delicate lace overlays on a charmeuse base, with hand-sewn beading around the necklines. Six dresses. Six very different women, six very different body types, requiring six meticulous fittings and endless adjustments. I spent weeks pouring over fabric swatches, ordering the highest quality silks and laces. Every yard of fabric, every spool of thread, every invisible zipper – all came out of my pocket initially, with the understanding she’d reimburse me for everything before the big day, plus my hourly rate.
I kept a detailed ledger, noting every expense down to the last button, every minute I clocked. It was exhausting. I worked until my fingers ached, until my eyes blurred from lack of sleep. My own projects, the ones that paid well, piled up. I pushed them aside. This was for family. This was important. I stayed up late, fueled by instant coffee and the thought of that tuition money finally within reach. The total, when I tallied it all up – materials and my very reasonable hourly rate – came to just under five thousand dollars. It was a significant sum. A sum she knew I desperately needed.
As the wedding day drew closer, and the dresses neared completion, I tried to gently bring up the matter of payment. “Just so we’re clear on everything,” I’d start, holding up the carefully itemized bill. She’d wave a dismissive hand, her eyes sparkling with wedding excitement. “Oh, we’ll sort it all out after the honeymoon, don’t you worry your pretty little head! Focus on making them perfect!” A small voice in the back of my head, a whisper of doubt, started to grow louder. But I pushed it down. She was family. She wouldn’t… she couldn’t…
Two cups of tea on a table | Source: Midjourney
The dresses were magnificent. They truly were. On the wedding day, the bridesmaids glowed. My stepsister pulled me aside, beaming. “Everyone is raving about them! You’re a miracle worker!” she whispered, giving me another one of her perfume-infused hugs. I managed a weak smile, my stomach churning. Just get through today, then you can talk to her properly.
The day after the wedding, I found her in the kitchen of our parents’ house, packing up leftover cake. I took a deep breath. “Hey,” I began, my voice steady, “about the dresses. I’ve got the final tally here for you.” I held out the neatly folded invoice.
She glanced at it, then at me, her smile faltering just a fraction. “What’s this?” she asked, her voice too light.
“The invoice. For the materials and my labor. Just under five thousand.”
She actually laughed. Not a warm, amused laugh, but a short, sharp bark that made my blood run cold. She put her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? What are you talking about?”
My jaw dropped. “The dresses. You know, the six bridesmaid dresses I spent four months of my life making, paying for materials out of my own pocket, missing out on paid work, because you promised to pay me for it.”
She shook her head, a smirk twisting her lips. “Oh, sweetie. You didn’t think I actually meant I was going to pay you for them, did you? It’s your wedding gift to us, of course! I mean, you’re family. You wouldn’t charge family, would you? And honestly, it’s not like you’re a professional designer. It was a favor.”
My heart felt like it was crumbling into dust, then shards of ice. My mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. A wedding gift? Five thousand dollars, four months of grueling labor, my future tuition… a gift? I felt like I was going to throw up.
A man sitting at a kitchen table | Source: Midjourney
And then she launched into it, how she’d used the “savings” from my “gift” to upgrade their honeymoon suite in Bora Bora. How her new husband was SO impressed with how “resourceful” she was. How she’d managed to get an incredible deal on everything by being clever. The gleam in her eyes, the casual cruelty, it was breathtaking.
I could only stare at her, the words finally tearing through my throat. “THAT MONEY WAS FOR MY TUITION. YOU KNEW THAT. I TOLD YOU.”
She just shrugged, picking up a piece of cake. “Well, consider it an investment in your ‘portfolio.’ People will see your work now, won’t they?”
I just stood there, the full weight of her betrayal crushing me. It wasn’t just the money. It wasn’t just the time. It was the calculated deception, the way she had looked me in the eye and lied, the way she had exploited my love, my talent, my hope for a future she had just, with a casual flick of her wrist, stolen. She knew exactly what she was doing. And she didn’t care. It was never about family. It was just about her. And I was just a fool. I still am.
