When my stepsister, Lila, got engaged, she was over the moon with excitement. From cake tastings to venue hunting, she involved the whole family in her wedding planning—except when it came to the bridesmaid dresses. That’s when she approached me.

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“You’re so good at sewing,” she said one afternoon over coffee. “Would you mind making the dresses for my bridesmaids? I want something unique, and I know you’ll
do it perfectly.”

At first, I was touched. I had taken sewing classes and often made my own clothes, but I’d never handled something as formal—or as important—as wedding attire. Still, the idea of contributing to her big day felt meaningful. I agreed, expecting that she would cover the costs and respect the time involved.

That’s where I was wrong.

Lila sent me inspiration photos and a rough list of colors but didn’t give exact measurements, fabric preferences, or a deadline. She just kept saying, “Nothing fancy, just something simple and elegant.” But anyone who has sewn dresses knows—nothing about six custom gowns is ever simple.

I asked her to sit down and finalize a design and color palette with me. She brushed it off. “I trust your judgment. You know what looks good.”

What she really meant was: “I expect you to figure it all out without bothering me.”

Still, I spent days sketching designs, browsing fabric shops, and ordering samples online. I even held a small fitting session with two of her bridesmaids to gauge sizes and styles. The more time passed, the more invested I became.

Weeks later, I brought up the subject of costs—fabrics, zippers, lining, thread—and gently asked if she could help cover the materials. Her response?

“You’re family. I thought you were doing this as a gift.”

That stung.

Not only was I spending my evenings and weekends working on these dresses, but I was also expected to fund the entire project myself. I tried to keep my cool and reminded her that while I loved helping, this was turning into a serious commitment of both time and money. I even showed her the receipts, which had already crossed $300 just for the basics.

Lila didn’t seem to grasp the weight of what she was asking. She waved her hand and said, “It’s just a few dresses. You make it look so easy anyway.”

That sentence hit hard. Because yes, I had put years into learning and practicing my craft. It wasn’t “easy”—it just looked that way because I’d worked hard to get good at it.

I tried to step back and reevaluate. Why was I bending over backward to please someone who didn’t appreciate the effort? Was I doing this out of love—or guilt?

Eventually, I gave her an ultimatum: either she covered the material costs and helped coordinate proper fittings, or I would have to step away from the project. I was polite but firm.

She was shocked.

“Are you really backing out now? The wedding is in two months!”

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I reminded her that she hadn’t provided sizes, fabric choices, or deadlines, and that I had already spent dozens of hours and hundreds of dollars on something she had treated casually.

After a long pause, she finally agreed to reimburse the material expenses and asked if we could simplify the design. We trimmed down the plan from six unique gowns to three identical ones and rented the rest.

In the end, the dresses turned out lovely—and the bridesmaids looked radiant. But the experience taught me a powerful lesson: just because you have a skill doesn't mean you owe it to others for free. And just because someone is family doesn’t mean they have the right to take your time, money, or energy for granted.

The wedding was beautiful, and Lila even thanked me in her speech, calling the dresses “a labor of love.” But inside, I knew I had set an important boundary. And I didn’t regret it.