I looked down at Max chewing on my shirt collar. Our baby fund was running dangerously low. My husband, Rio, was pulling double shifts at the factory, but bills kept piling up. Maybe this could help.
“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 the money when they’re finished. I promise I’ll pay you.”
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
The fittings began.
Sarah, tall and curvy, hated high necklines. “They make me look like a nun. Can we go lower?”
Emma, petite, wanted the opposite. “This neckline is way too low. I’ll look inappropriate. Can we make it higher? And looser at the waist. Oh, and longer sleeves—I hate my arms.”
Jessica, athletic, demanded a thigh‑high slit and bust support.
Each bridesmaid had strong, conflicting opinions. Sarah wanted flowy hips, Emma hated the color, Jessica thought the silk felt cheap.
Meanwhile, Max cried every two hours. I nursed him with one hand while pinning hems with the other. My back screamed from hunching over the sewing machine until 3 a.m. Rio often found me passed out at the kitchen table, surrounded by pins and fabric scraps.
“You’re killing yourself for this project,” he said one night, handing me coffee. “You spent $400 of our baby money, Amelia.”
He was right. I’d used our emergency fund for silk, lining, lace, and notions. Jade kept promising to reimburse me “soon.”
Two days before the wedding, I delivered six flawless dresses. Each fit like couture.
Jade barely looked up from her phone. “Just hang them in the spare room.”
“Don’t you want to see them? They turned out beautiful.”
“I’m sure they’re adequate.”
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