My stepsister, Jade, was getting married and couldn’t find bridesmaid dresses that worked on all six girls. I used to be a seamstress before maternity leave, so she asked me to make them.
She said, “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. I’ll pay you well as soon as they’re done. You’d really be saving my life.”
So, I said yes. She was family.
I got to work. I pushed through midnight feeds, a crying baby, sheer exhaustion. I stayed up past midnight for a week straight to meet her deadline. And since there was no upfront payment, I dipped into our baby fund for fabric.
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.”
Then came petite Emma on Friday, who wanted the exact opposite of everything Sarah had requested.
“This neckline is way too low for me,” she said, frowning at the fabric. “I’ll look inappropriate. Can we make it higher? And the waist needs to be way looser. I don’t like tight clothes.”
“Absolutely. We can modify the pattern.”
“Great. Oh, and can the sleeves be longer? I hate my arms.”
Saturday brought athletic Jessica, who had her own list of demands.
Each girl had strong, conflicting opinions. But I adjusted everything so that each of them looked just perfect.
Two days before the wedding, I delivered six absolutely perfect, custom-tailored dresses. Each one fit like it was designed by a high-end fashion house.
Jade was sprawled on her couch, scrolling through her phone when I knocked. She didn’t even look up.
She just muttered, “Meh. They’ll do. Thanks. Just hang them somewhere in the spare room.”
I asked, “So… when can I get reimbursed? I used some of our baby money for fabric and I’ll need it back soon. Max needs a winter coat.”
She laughed. “Oh, you’re joking, right? This is your gift. What else were you gonna give me? A toaster? Besides, it’s not like you’re working. You’re home doing nothing anyway.”
I swear to God, I felt the air leave my lungs. I was stunned. She waved her hand, already done with me.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
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I went home and cried. My husband wanted to go off—I told him not to. I’d find another way.
At the wedding, I did my best to smile and not ruin the day. The bridesmaids looked amazing in the dresses I made.
But then karma decided to make an entrance. Right before the first dance, Jade dragged me into the bathroom, crying.
She whispered, “Please, I need your help!!!”
I looked at her and gasped.
The zipper of her $3,000 wedding gown had split wide open from waist to hip. Her designer dress—imported from Italy, the one she had bragged about for months—was ruined.
“Do something! You have to fix it—right now!” she sobbed, clutching the fabric to her body.
I blinked. “Fix it? You didn’t even want to pay me for the bridesmaid dresses, Jade. Why would I rescue you now?”
Her eyes widened in panic. “Camille, please! Everyone’s waiting. The photographer, the band, the guests—if I walk out there like this, my whole wedding is ruined!”
I folded my arms. “Funny. You told me my work was ‘nothing’ and that I was just sitting at home doing nothing. Guess that ‘nothing’ is the only thing standing between you and total humiliation.”
She begged, tears streaking her makeup. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you double. Just… please.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Triple. In cash. Tonight. Or you can explain to 200 guests why your $3,000 dress couldn’t survive one dance.”
For the first time, Jade looked small. Defeated. She nodded frantically. “Fine. Triple. I promise.”
I grabbed my emergency sewing kit—because of course, I’d brought one—and stitched her up just enough to survive the night.
When she stepped back onto the dance floor, no one suspected the disaster she’d narrowly avoided. The bridesmaids sparkled in the dresses I had made, and Jade beamed like she hadn’t just been on the verge of collapse.
But later, when the reception ended, I walked into her bridal suite. She was still in her gown, peeling off jewelry.
“Your payment,” I reminded her.
She hesitated for half a second too long. That was all I needed.
“Don’t even think about it, Jade,” I said coldly. “Because if you do… every single person here will know you stiffed me after I saved you from humiliation. And I’ll make sure they know those bridesmaid dresses didn’t come from a boutique—they came from me. And that you tried to cheat your own family.”
Her hand shook as she handed me the envelope of cash. Thick. Heavy. Enough to replace every cent I’d spent, with plenty left over.
Walking out of that venue with my head held high, I realized something: Jade could keep her husband, her expensive gown, and her fake princess wedding.
But I had something she never would—dignity.
The next morning, my phone buzzed. It was one of the bridesmaids—Emma.
“Hey… so, Jade told us last night you tried to charge her to fix her dress at the wedding. She said you were being greedy. Is that true?”
For a moment, I almost laughed. Classic Jade—twist the story before anyone else could. But I wasn’t about to let her smear me.
I took a deep breath and explained everything. How Jade had begged me to make six custom gowns. How she promised to pay but refused after I’d spent our baby’s winter coat fund on fabric. How she mocked me for “doing nothing at home.” And finally, how her precious designer gown had split—and I had stitched her back together at the last possible second.
Silence. Then Emma muttered, “Oh my God. She told us those bridesmaid dresses were from an upscale boutique. She even bragged about how much they cost!”
One by one, the other bridesmaids called me. Sarah. Jessica. The rest. Each one furious—not at me, but at Jade.
By that afternoon, Jade’s group chat was on fire. Screenshots of her lies, messages flying, bridesmaids demanding why she hadn’t told them the truth—or given me credit. Word spread fast, and soon even her in-laws were asking uncomfortable questions.
At Sunday brunch with her new husband’s family, one of his aunts apparently said, “It’s a shame, Jade. Everyone’s talking about how beautiful those dresses were—Camille really outdid herself. You must be so proud of her.”
Jade’s face, according to Emma, turned the color of spoiled milk.
And that was the moment I realized karma had handled the rest for me.
Not only did I walk away with payment in cash, but Jade lost the admiration she’d been desperate to hoard for herself. The people she wanted to impress the most now knew her “perfect wedding” only stood because I held it together—literally with needle and thread.
As for me? I took that money, bought Max the warmest little winter coat I could find, and put the rest back into our savings.
And every time I sat at my sewing machine afterward, I did it with my head high. Because I wasn’t “just sitting at home doing nothing.” I was creating. I was providing. And unlike Jade, I didn’t need a spotlight to prove my worth.
Because the people who matter already knew.
