My Stepsister Asked Me to Sew Dresses for Her Six Bridesmaids – Then Refused to Pay Me for the Materials and My Work
When my stepsister asked me to sew six custom bridesmaid dresses, I said yes, hoping it might bring us closer. I spent £400 from our baby fund on the materials. When I delivered the dresses, she called it my “gift” and snickered when I asked to be paid. Karma paid her back in the worst way.
The call from my stepsister came on a Tuesday morning while I was juggling four-month-old George on my hip.
“Alice? It’s Emily. I desperately need your help.”
I shifted George to my other arm, wincing as he tugged my hair. “What’s going on?”
“You know I’m getting married next month, right? I’ve been to 12 boutiques, and nothing suits all six girls properly. Different shapes, you know? Then I remembered… you’re brilliant at sewing. Your work is like a professional seamstress.”
“Emily, I’m really not…”
“Could you make them? Please? You’re always at home, and I’d pay you well! You’d literally save my wedding. I’m panicking here.”
Emily and I had never been close. Different mothers, different lives. But she was family-ish.
“I haven’t done proper work since George was born. How long do I have?”
“Three weeks? I know it’s tight, but you’re talented. Remember that dress you made for cousin Lucy’s graduation? Half the guests asked for your name.”
I glanced at George, now chewing my scarf. Our savings were dwindling. My husband James had been working double shifts at the mill. But the bills kept coming. Maybe this could help.
“What’s your budget for materials and labor? Six dresses is a lot of work.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that now. We’ll sort the money when they’re done. I’ll pay you, I promise.”
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
The first bridesmaid, Olivia, arrived that Thursday. She was tall and curvy with strong opinions.
“I hate high necklines,” she declared, eyeing my sketch. “They make me look like a schoolmistress. Can we go much lower?”
“Of course. How’s this?” I adjusted the design.
“Perfect. Oh, and can the waist be tighter here and here? I want it fitted.”
Then came petite Grace on Friday, who wanted the opposite.
“This neckline is too low for me,” she frowned. “I’ll look indecent. Can we make it higher? And the waist needs to be looser. I hate tight clothes.”
“Absolutely. We can tweak the pattern.”
“Great. And can the sleeves be longer? I dislike showing my arms.”
Saturday brought active Eleanor, who had her own list.
“I need a thigh-high slit. I want to dance freely. And can we add some bust support? I need structure.”
Each girl had clashing demands.
“Can we make this flowier around the hips?” Olivia asked during her second fitting. “I look chunky in anything tight there.”
“This color makes my skin tone worse,” Grace grumbled during her third visit. “Can we switch to blue?”
“This fabric feels basic,” Eleanor said bluntly, rubbing the silk. “It’s not photo-worthy.”
I nodded. “We can upgrade that.”
Meanwhile, George cried every two hours. I’d nurse him with one hand while pinning hems with the other. My back ached from hunching over the sewing machine until 3 a.m. most nights.
James would find me passed out at the kitchen table, surrounded by pins and fabric.
“You’re killing yourself for this,” he said, handing me tea. “When’s the last time you slept more than two hours?”
“It’s almost done,” I mumbled.
“Family who hasn’t paid yet. You spent £400 of our baby fund, Alice.”
He was right. I’d used our saved emergency money for silk, lining, lace, and notions. Emily kept promising to reimburse me “soon.”
Two days before the wedding, I delivered six flawless, custom-tailored dresses. Each fit like a London designer’s work.
Emily lounged on her sofa, scrolling her phone when I knocked. She didn’t glance up.
“Just hang them in the spare room,” she said.
“Don’t you want to see them first? They’re really stunning.”
“I’m sure they’re fine.”
Fine? Three weeks of my life, £400 of our funds, sleepless nights, and they were “fine”?
“So about the payment we discussed…”
That stopped her. She looked up, surprised. “Payment? What payment?”
“You said you’d cover the materials. Plus, we never discussed labor. Professional seamstresses charge.”
“Oh, Alice, you’re serious? This is obviously your wedding GIFT to me! What else were you going to give? A generic photo frame? A kettle from your registry?”
“Emily, I used money for George’s winter coat. His coat doesn’t fit, and I need that cash back…”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’re just at home all day anyway. I gave you a fun project to avoid boredom.”
The words stung. “I haven’t slept more than two hours in weeks.”
“Welcome to motherhood! Now, I’ve got to get ready. Thanks for the dresses!”
I sobbed in my car for 30 minutes. When I returned home, James took one look at my face and grabbed his phone.
“That’s it. I’m calling her.”
“No, James. Don’t make it worse before her wedding.”
“She stole from you, Alice. This is theft.”
“I know. But causing a scene won’t get our money back.”
“So we just let her walk all over you?”
“For now, yes. I can’t handle more drama.”
He clenched his jaw but put the phone down. “This isn’t over.”
The wedding was beautiful. Emily glowed in her designer dress. My dresses? They were the talk of the reception.
“Who designed these bridesmaid gowns?” I overheard.
“They’re incredible! So elegant and flattering.”
I watched Emily tense each time someone praised the bridesmaids instead of her. She’d splurged on her dress, yet all eyes lingered on the silk and lace I’d crafted with sore fingers.
Then I caught Emily whispering near the bar.
“Honestly, the dresses were free labor. My stepsister’s desperate for something to do since she’s trapped at home with the baby. She’d likely sew anything if you asked nicely. Some people are just easy to manipulate!”
Her friend laughed. “Genius! Free designer work.”
My pulse roared.
Twenty minutes before the first dance, Emily appeared at my table, gripping my arm.
“Alice, help, it’s an emergency!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just come. Fast.”
She dragged me to the loo, checking for witnesses. Inside, she pushed me into the stall.
Her designer dress had split along the entire back. Her lace slip was visible through the gap.
“Oh no!”
“Everyone will see! The photographers, the 200 guests! You’re the only one who can fix this. Please!”
I stared at the split. Cheap work under a costly label. The irony was rich.
After a long pause, I pulled my sewing kit from my bag. Old habits die hard.
“Stand completely still. Don’t breathe deeply.”
“Thank you, thank you! I’d die of embarrassment otherwise.”
I knelt on the floor, using tissues to protect my knees. My phone’s flashlight guided my hands while laughter echoed outside.
Ten minutes later, the dress was pristine.
Emily checked the mirror, sighing with relief. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She turned to go.
“Wait. You owe me an apology. Not money. Just honesty. Tell everyone I made these dresses. Tell them what really happened.”
“Alice, I…
“One truth. That’s all I want.”
She left without a word. I assumed that was the end.
But during the speech, Emily stood.
“Before we continue, I need to say something. An apology, actually.”
My heart halted.
“I treated my stepsister like she was disposable. I promised to pay her for six custom dresses, then called it her gift. I used money she’d saved for her baby, then acted like she should be grateful.”
“Tonight, when my dress split, she was the only one who could save me. And she did. Even after how I treated her.” Emily pulled an envelope from her clutch. “She didn’t deserve my selfishness. So here’s what I owe her. Plus extra for her baby.”
She handed me the envelope.
“I’m sorry, Alice. For everything.”
The room erupted in applause. All I heard was my own heartbeat. Not for the money, but because she’d finally seen me as more than free labor.
Justice doesn’t need a showdown or revenge. Sometimes, it’s a needle, thread, and a moment of dignity when helping someone who doesn’t deserve it. And that’s exactly what opens their eyes.