My Stepsister Begged Me to Make Bridesmaid Gowns – Then Refused to Reimburse Me for the Materials or My Labour
When my stepsister, Olivia, asked me to sew six tailor-made bridesmaid gowns for her wedding, I agreed, hoping it might close the distance between us. I spent £400 from our baby fund on the fabrics, a chunk we’d saved meticulously for Harry’s new winter gear. When I delivered the gowns, she dismissed my work as “a gift” and rolled her eyes when I asked for payment. It turned out karma had a way of settling the score.
The call came on a Tuesday morning as I balanced four-month-old Harry on my hip, trying to pacify his fussing.
“James? It’s Olivia. I’m in a pickle.”
I adjusted Harry to my free arm, wincing as he tugged at my jumper. “What’s the problem?”
“You know I’m wedding this month? Well, I’ve tried every shop in town and can’t find anything that fits the six girls. Different shapes, you know? Then I remembered—your work’s top-notch from the gown you made for cousin Clara’s graduation. Everyone was raving about it.”
“I’ve not done anything professional since Harry arrived. How much time do I have?”
“Three weeks? I know it’s tight, but you’re brilliant with a sewing machine. If you do this, you’ll truly be saving the ceremony. I’ll sort the money, of course—promise.”
We were never close. Different mothers, divergent lives. But blood ties tugged at me.
“I haven’t taken on a job like this since having Harry. What’s the budget?”
“Don’t worry—let’s talk about it later. I owe you heaps, I promise.”
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
The first bridesmaid, Emily, arrived Thursday. Tall and full-figured, she had strong ideas about her gown.
“I despise high necklines,” she declared, eyeing my sketch. “They make me look like a nun. Can we go lower?”
“Of course. How’s this?” I adjusted the design.
“Perfect. Oh, and the waist needs to be tighter, just here.”
Petite Amelia came Friday, demanding the opposite.
“This neckline’s far too low for me,” she frowned, flipping the fabric. “I’ll look wild. Can we raise it? And the waist should be looser—I hate clingy clothes.”
“Absolutely. Let’s tweak the pattern.”
Saturday brought Jessica, all toned curves and athletic build.
“I need a slit up the thigh, high enough to dance freely. And some structure up top for support.”
Each girl had clashing demands.
“Can we make the skirt more flowing? I look bloated in anything snug,” Emily griped.
“This hue’s sapping my skin tone,” Amelia groaned. “Couldn’t we go for blue?”
“This fabric’s too flimsy,” Jessica scoffed, running her hands over the silk.
I nodded. “We can adjust.”
Meanwhile, Harry wailed every two hours. I’d rock him with one hand while stitching hemlines with the other. My back ached from hunching over the machine until 3 am.
Emily would find me slumped at the kitchen table, surrounded by pins and scraps.
“You’re killing yourself,” she’d say, handing me coffee. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“It’s nearly done,” I’d mumble.
“You spent all our savings on silk, lining, lace. She hasn’t paid a penny yet.”
She was right.
Two days before the wedding, I delivered six pristine, custom-tailored gowns. Each fit like something from Savile Row.
Olivia, sprawled on her sofa scrolling her phone, didn’t even glance up when I arrived.
“Drape them in the spare room,” she muttered.
“Don’t you want to see them first? They’re exquisite.”
“They’ll do.”
They’ll do? Three weeks of my life, £400 of our baby fund, sleepless nights—and she called them “adequate”?
“I assume you’ll be reimbursing me for the materials now,” I pressed.
Her perfectly arched brows raised. “Payment? What payment?”
“You promised to cover the costs. Professional stitching isn’t free.”
“James, come off it. It’s a wedding GIFT! What else were you planning to give me? A generic frame? A microwave from your registry?”
“This was money for Harry’s coat. He’s outgrown his, and we need it back.”
“Stop overreacting. You’ve time on your hands anyway. Help yourself to a project, you know?”
The words froze me. “Adequate” and “project.”
“I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks.”
“Well, here’s parenthood. Now, I’ve to get ready. Thanks for the dresses!”
I wept in my car for 30 minutes, sobs fogging the windows. When I got home, Emily flew for her phone.
“I’m calling her right now.”
“No, please. Not before the wedding.”
“She stole from you, James. This is theft.”
“I know. But drama won’t get our money back.”
“Fine. But this isn’t over.”
The wedding was lavish. Olivia dazzled in her designer gown. My gowns? The talk of the reception.
“Who created those bridesmaid dresses?” someone overheard.
“Their fit is flawless,” another guest gushed.
I noticed Olivia stiffen every time someone praised the gowns. She’d splurged on her dress, yet all eyes lingered on mine.
Then I heard her whispering by the bar.
“Honestly, the gowns were free labour. My stepsister’s desperate for something to do with the baby. She’d do anything if you flatter her.”
Her friend laughed. “Genius! Free haute couture.”
“Exactly. She’s easy to milk.”
My temper flared.
Later, Olivia seized my arm mid-dance.
“James, help. This is an emergency!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come quick.”
She dragged me to the loo, pulling me into the largest cubicle. Her designer gown had split clean down the back, her underwear visible.
“Everyone’ll see! The photographers, the guests! You’re the only one who can fix it. Please.”
I silently fished out my emergency kit. Old habits don’t die.
“Stand still. Don’t breathe deep.”
Using baby wipes to protect my knees, I mended the tear under my phone light. Ten minutes later, the gown was perfect.
“Thank you, thank you,” she sobbed.
“Say one truth. Not money, just honesty. Tell people I made those gowns.”
“James, I—”
“One truth. That’s all.”
She left in silence.
But during the speeches, Olivia rose.
“I’ve something to say. An apology.”
My heart froze.
“I treated my stepsister like she was nothing. Promised her £400 for six bespoke gowns, then called it a gift. I spent money she’d saved for her baby, then mocked her for the work. When my dress split tonight, only she could salvage the moment. She did. Without a word.”
She handed me an envelope. “Here’s what I owe—plus extra for Harry.”
The room erupted. I heard my heartbeat, not the clapping. She’d finally seen me as more than free Labour.
Justice isn’t dramatic. Sometimes it’s a needle, thread, and the mercy to let someone fix their mistakes. Especially when it’s you who holds the needle.