When my stepsister asked me to sew six custom bridesmaid dresses, I said yes, hoping it might bring us closer. I spent $400 from my baby fund on the materials. When I delivered the dresses, she called it my “gift” and laughed when I asked to be paid.
Karma struck at the perfect moment.
The call from my stepsister came on a Tuesday morning while I was bouncing my four-month-old son Max on my hip.
“Amelia? It’s Jade. I desperately need your help.”
I shifted little Max to my other arm, wincing as he grabbed a fistful of my hair.
“What’s going on?”
“You know I’m getting married next month, right? Well, I’m having an absolute nightmare finding bridesmaid dresses. I’ve been to 12 boutiques, and nothing looks decent on all the six girls.
Different body types, you know? Then I remembered… you’re absolutely incredible with that sewing machine.
Your work is professional quality.”
“Jade, I’m not really…”
“Could you possibly make them? Please? I mean, you’re home anyway, and I’d pay you really well, of course!
You’d literally be saving my entire wedding. I’m running out of options here.”
Jade and I had never been particularly close. We had different mothers and different lives.
But she was family. Well, sort of.
“I haven’t done professional work since Max was born. How much time do I have?”
“Three weeks?
I know it’s incredibly tight, but you’re so talented. Remember that dress you made for cousin Lia’s graduation? Everyone was asking who designed it.”
I looked down at Max, who was now chewing on my shirt collar.
Our baby fund was running dangerously low. My husband Rio had been pulling double shifts at the factory. But the bills kept piling up.
Maybe this could actually help us out.
“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 out all the money stuff when they’re finished.
I promise I’ll pay you.”
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
The first bridesmaid, Sarah, arrived that Thursday afternoon. She was tall and curvy with very specific ideas about everything.
“I absolutely hate high necklines,” she announced, examining the sketch I’d drawn.
“They make me look like a nun. Can we go much lower?”
“Of course. How’s this?” I adjusted the design.
“Perfect.
Oh, and I need the waist taken in here, and here. I want it really fitted.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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