The call came on a Tuesday morning while I was holding my four-month-old son, Liam, on my hip. “Eliza? It’s Nora. I really need your help,” she said. I shifted Liam to my other arm, wincing as he grabbed my hair. “What’s wrong?” “You know my wedding is next month, right? I’ve been to twelve stores looking for bridesmaid dresses, and nothing fits all six girls. Then I remembered… you’re amazing with a sewing machine. Your work is flawless.” “Eliza, I haven’t really—” “Could you make them? Please? I’ll pay you, of course. Seriously, you’d save my wedding. I’m out of options.” Nora and I had never been close. Family… sort of. “I haven’t sewn seriously since Liam was born. How much time do I have?” “Three weeks? I know it’s tight, but you’re so talented. Remember the gown you made for Mia? Everyone asked who made it.” I looked down at Liam, chewing on my shirt collar. Our baby savings were dangerously low. Owen, my husband, was working long factory shifts, and bills kept piling up. But maybe this could really help us financially. “What’s your budget for materials and labor? Six dresses is a big job.” “Don’t worry about that now. We’ll figure out payment later. I promise.” “Okay. I’ll do it.”
The first bridesmaid, Chloe, arrived Thursday afternoon. Tall, curvy, and very particular. “I hate high necklines,” she said, looking at my sketch. “They make me look stiff. Can we lower it a lot?” “Sure. How’s this?” I adjusted the design. “Perfect. And take in the waist here and here. I want it snug.” Friday brought petite Lily, who wanted the opposite of Chloe. “This neckline is too low for me,” she frowned. “And the waist needs to be looser. I don’t like tight clothes.” “No problem.” “And the sleeves—can they be longer? I don’t want to show my arms.” Saturday, athletic Ava, had her own long list of requests. “I need a high slit in the skirt to dance freely. And extra support in the chest area. I need structure.” Each girl had strong, differing opinions. “Can we make it flow more around the hips?” Chloe asked during her second fitting. “I don’t like this color,” Lily complained. “Could we try something else? Maybe blue?” “This fabric feels cheap,” Ava said, rubbing the silk. “It won’t look good in pictures.” I smiled. “Of course, we can fix that.” Meanwhile, Liam cried every two hours. I fed him with one hand while pinning hems with the other. My back ached from bending over the sewing machine until three in the morning. Owen often found me slumped at the kitchen table, surrounded by pins and fabric scraps. “You’re wearing yourself out for this project,” he said, handing me coffee. “When did you last sleep more than two hours straight?” “It’s almost done,” I mumbled. “Family that hasn’t even paid for materials yet. You spent $400 of our baby savings, Eliza.” He was right. Fine silk, quality lining, lace—all bought with money meant for emergencies. Nora kept saying she’d pay “soon.”
Two days before the wedding, I delivered six flawless, custom-made dresses. Nora lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone. “Just hang them in the spare room,” she said, absorbed by her screen. “Don’t you want to see them? They turned out beautifully.” “I’m sure they’re fine.” Fine? Three weeks of my life, $400 from our savings, sleepless nights—and they were just “fine”? “And about the payment we discussed…” Finally, she looked up, eyebrows raised. “Payment? What payment?” “You said you’d cover materials. Plus, professional seamstresses charge for labor.” “Oh honey, you’re serious? This is your WEDDING GIFT! What else would I give you? A blender?” “Nora, that money was for Liam’s winter clothes. I need it back…” “Don’t be dramatic. You don’t have a real job anyway. I just gave you a little project to keep busy.” Her words stung. “Just staying home all day. A little project.” “I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks,” I said. “Welcome to motherhood! Thanks for the dresses.” I cried in my car for thirty minutes, shaking, windows fogged. Owen saw my swollen face and grabbed his phone. “That’s it. I’m calling her.” “No, don’t. Wait until after her wedding.” “She totally used you, Eliza. That’s theft.” “I know. Fighting now won’t get our money back.” “Then what? We let her walk all over you?” “For now, yes. Let’s survive the wedding first.” The wedding was stunning. Nora looked incredible in her designer gown. And my dresses? Everyone noticed. “Who made these dresses?” someone asked. “They’re gorgeous,” another guest said. I watched Nora stiffen as guests praised the bridesmaids. She had spent a fortune on her gown, but everyone’s eyes were on my creations. Then I overheard her whispering to a friend near the bar: “Honestly, the dresses were basically free. My stepsister’s home all day; she’d sew anything for me.” Her friend laughed. “Smart. Free designer work.” My face burned with fury. Twenty minutes before the first dance, Nora grabbed my arm. “Eliza, I need your help. Urgent. Come with me.” “What happened?” She led me to the restroom and into the largest stall. Her expensive designer dress had ripped wide open down the back seam. Her white underwear showed. “Oh my gosh!” “Everyone’s going to see!” she cried. “You’re the only one who can fix this.” I pulled my emergency sewing kit from my purse. Old habits die hard. “Stand still. Don’t breathe deeply.” Ten minutes later, the dress looked perfect. She checked the mirror, relieved. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” “Wait. You owe me the truth. Tell people I made those gowns.” She left without a word. I thought that was the end. But during her speech, she stood. “Before we continue, I owe an apology. I treated my stepsister’s talent like it was worthless. I promised to pay her for six dresses, then called it a gift. She spent her savings for my wedding, and when my dress ripped, she was the only one who could save me.” She pulled out an envelope. “She didn’t deserve my selfishness, but here’s my thanks, plus what I owe her, and extra for her baby.” She handed it to me. “I’m sorry, Eliza. For everything.” The room erupted in applause. My heart raced—not for the money, but because she finally recognized me. Justice doesn’t always come from anger or revenge. Sometimes, it comes with a needle, thread, and enough dignity to make someone see the truth.
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