When Jess and Michael get engaged, her cousin Sarah decided to sew her wedding dress for her as a gift. But during the final fitting, Jess discovers that the wedding dress is two sizes too small. Will Sarah fix her error, or will Jess have to take things into her own hands?
My cousin Sarah and I have always had a complicated relationship. She’s loud and bubbly, but also the type of person who craves the spotlight. And because of that, our entire family gave her the attention she wanted. It made more sense to shine the spotlight on Sarah, rather than ourselves.
When Michael and I got engaged after being together for four years, my whole family seemed genuinely excited for me.
A couple standing together | Source: Midjourney
Sarah even got all of our girl cousins together, along with my best friends, for a night out. Ending in an Airbnb where we continued the party, because I was the first of us to get engaged.
During that night out, Sarah came up to me, a glass of champagne in her hand.
“Jess! I have a great idea!” she said.
A smiling woman holding a glass of champagne | Source: Midjourney
“What?” I asked. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to make your wedding dress for you!” she exclaimed, swaying to the music as she spoke.
Now, Sarah is a brilliant seamstress, and she’s made some incredible outfits in her young career so far. Despite our complicated relationship, the thought of Sarah making a dress for me was actually a lovely idea.
A woman working as a seamstress | Source: Midjourney
“Really? You’d do that for me?” I asked, touched by the gesture.
“Of course, Jess! It’ll be perfect!” she replied with a smile that seemed nothing but sincere at the time.
The rest of the evening went off without a hitch. I was surrounded by the people who loved me, and even more, my cousin wanted to do something so intimate by making me a wedding dress.
Smiling women at a party | Source: Midjourney
Everything felt right.
We spent weeks choosing the design and fabrics. We pored over the magazines and websites, and finally, I had an idea in mind.
One day, I met Sarah at her office, ready to take my final measurements so that she could start with my dress.
“You’re going to look amazing,” she said, taking my measurements precisely, jotting down everything carefully on her writing pad.
The office of a seamstress | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, I hope so,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee as Sarah put her measuring tape away. “I’ve been on a strict diet, and I’m finally happy with my weight. So, it’s just about maintaining my figure now.”
“You look good, Jess,” she said. “But if anything changes and you find yourself losing or gaining weight, just let me know, and you can come in for another fitting.”
I nodded and left, eager to see how my dress was going to turn out.
But when I went for the final fitting, things took a turn.
A garment bag on a hanger | Source: Midjourney
I slipped into the dress, but something was wrong—it was way too small. I couldn’t even zip it up, no matter how hard I sucked in my breath.
“Jess! Are you crazy to gain weight before the wedding?” Sarah asked, her tone dripping with mock concern.
My heart sank. We were two weeks away from the wedding, and judging from this fitting, I didn’t have a dress.
A shocked young woman | Source: Midjourney
“I haven’t gained any weight, Sarah,” I replied. “I’ve been too stressed to eat. If anything, I should have lost weight because of that!”
Sarah shrugged, barely concealing a smirk that was plastered onto her face.
“Well, I’ll try to fix it, but with the wedding so close, I can’t make any promises. I have other clients waiting for their orders, too, Jess.”
A nonchalant woman | Source: Midjourney
Her words rang loud and clear in my head as I drove away from her office.
And then it hit me — this wasn’t an accident. I recalled the way she spoke to me, and the tone in her voice. There was no remorse in her mistake. There was no mix-up in measurements. There was no weight gain with me.
This was deliberate, and Sarah had made the dress too small on purpose.
“I don’t know what to do,” I told Michael when he got home that evening.
A couple talking in their kitchen | Source: Midjourney
“Show me the dress?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of water.
“What! No!” I exclaimed. “The dress may be a mess, but it’s bad luck for you to see!”
“Look, why don’t you take the dress to Mrs. Lawson? She’s my mom’s friend, and she does all her alterations. She’s making Mom’s dress for the wedding, too.”
An older seamstress | Source: Midjourney
So, I gathered the awful dress and went to Mrs. Lawson, who was a retired seamstress with a reputation for miracles.
“Oh, honey,” she said when I walked in. “Michael phoned me and told me all about the mess. But I’ve seen the worst and made it a hundred times better.”
“This might be tricky, though,” I said, showing her the dress.
A smiling older woman | Source: Midjourney
“Honey, I’ve seen it all, trust me. Let’s make this work,” she chuckled.
Together, we transformed the original design into something completely new. A chic, short, cocktail-style dress that was bold, unconventional, and a bit edgy for a wedding.
But it was absolutely stunning. It was everything Sarah’s dress wasn’t: fun, flirty, and perfectly me.
A wedding dress on a hanger | Source: Midjourney
When it was time to walk down the aisle, my heart raced. I stood in the bridal suite of the wedding venue and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked beautiful. I felt beautiful.
As my dad walked into the room to get me, his jaw dropped.
“My darling,” he said. “You look incredible! Wow!”
A close up of a bride | Source: Midjourney
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I know it’s not what we all envisioned me wearing for my wedding, but it’s been the best surprise. I feel like a bride.”
“That’s the only thing that matters, darling,” he said.
Soon, my entrance music began, and goosebumps appeared all over my body as a classical version of a Lana Del Rey song took over the room.
Heads turned.
A smiling father-of-the-bride | Source: Midjourney
And I felt the buzz of admiration follow me as people watched me walk in. I knew that my dress was a hit.
When I got closer to Michael, his eyes widened, and his smile took over his face. I knew then that the man I was about to marry fell in love with me all over again.
But before I took my place next to Michael, I turned to Sarah, wanting to see her expression first.
A groom standing at the altar | Source: Midjourney
Her face was priceless: she was pale and shocked. I knew she had expected to see me in tears, humiliated by her sabotage and wearing that horrible dress she had designed.
Instead, I was glowing, smiling from ear to ear.
The ceremony went off without a hitch, Michael’s vows leaving me in tears and my heart full of love for the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.
A bride with tears in her eyes | Source: Midjourney
But then came the reception.
Michael and I were mingling with our guests when Sarah cornered me.
“Jess, what happened to the dress? Where’s my original design? Why did you change it?” she asked, trying to hide her confusion.
I grinned.
A close up of an annoyed woman | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, I thought I’d take your design and make it better! Remember, you weren’t even sure that you could do anything about it. And I was bursting out of it because it was at least two sizes too small.”
“So, that’s it? You just threw away my hard work?” she gasped. “That’s low!”
“No, Sarah, your work is the foundation of this dress. It’s just a hundred times better because the woman who fixed it wanted me to look and feel beautiful on my wedding day.”
A close up of an annoyed woman | Source: Midjourney
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Around us, guests kept complimenting my dress, calling it unique and stunning.
Sarah had no choice but to stand there and listen.
“Come on, love,” Michael called to me. “Let’s do our first dance so that I can really get into the buffet after! The roast beef is to die for!”
“I’m coming,” I smiled, finally happy.
A couple standing at a wedding buffet | Source: Midjourney
What would you have done?
If you enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you:
I Asked My Grandmother to Walk Down the Aisle at My Wedding — My Family Demands That I Apologize for It
Just days before her wedding, Leah discovers that her grandmother didn’t have a wedding. Unable to sleep due to her grandmother having missed her opportunity, Leah wants her grandparents to have their moment and walk down the aisle. Instead of it playing out as Leah plans, she has to deal with a grandmother in a wedding dress, an embarrassed grandfather, and livid family members. Did she ruin her own wedding just to give her grandmother a memory?
“Tell me about your wedding, Gran,” I asked, rocking back and forth on the porch swing. The night was quiet, and we were a week away from my wedding.
A person sitting on a porch swing | Source: Midjourney
All I wanted to do was soak up the time I had left with my grandmother because once we were married, Nate and I would be moving away.
“Oh, honey, there wasn’t really a wedding. Your grandfather always promised, but it never happened,” she smiled, her eyes distant.
A smiling old woman | Source: Pexels
“Never?” I asked, frowning.
My grandmother shook her head.
“No. He didn’t even propose, Leah,” she said. “He always said that we’d get around to it eventually, but life just kept getting in the way. We raised our kids, took care of the house, and before I knew it, decades had passed.”
A woman washing dishes | Source: Unsplash
“But you are married, right?” I asked, trying to understand why my grandmother’s words felt like such a blow to me.
“Married, yes. Your grandfather took me down to the courthouse, and we signed away our single lives. He didn’t ask me; he just said that it was going to happen. And it did.”
The exterior of a court house | Source: Unsplash
My heart ached for her.
“But you wanted one, right? A wedding, I mean,” I pressed.
Her smile was wistful.
“I did, but I let go of that dream a long time ago. Now, come on, I’ll make you some hot chocolate before you leave.”
Two mugs of hot chocolate | Source: Midjourney
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
Acolhi uma mendiga com um bebé porque ela me lembrava a minha falecida filha – O que ela fez na minha casa chocou-me profundamente
Acolhi uma mendiga com um bebé porque ela me lembrava a minha falecida filha – O que ela fez na minha casa chocou-me profundamente
A noite caía pesadamente sobre Lisboa, trazendo consigo uma brisa fria que me fazia encolher dentro do meu casaco. Tinha acabado de sair do cemitério, onde visitara o jazigo da minha Sofia. Um ano. Um ano desde que a doença a levara, deixando um vazio imenso no meu peito. Enquanto caminhava pelas ruas movimentadas, com o coração apertado, vi-a.
Estava sentada num banco de jardim, debaixo de um candeeiro fraco, aninhada contra o frio. Nos seus braços, um embrulho pequeno – um bebé. Os seus cabelos, claros e despenteados, emolduravam um rosto magro e pálido, e os seus olhos… ah, os seus olhos! Eram da mesma tonalidade de verde-água que os da minha Sofia, cheios de uma tristeza que me trespassou a alma. Foi como se o tempo parasse. Naquele momento, não vi uma mendiga; vi a minha filha, com um filho ao colo, perdida e desamparada.
Sem hesitar, aproximei-me. “Senhora, está tudo bem? Precisa de ajuda?” A sua voz, quando respondeu, era fraca, quase inaudível. “Não, obrigada. Estamos bem.” Mas os seus olhos denunciavam a sua mentira. O bebé começou a chorar baixinho, e ela tentou acalmá-lo, mas as suas mãos tremiam.
Não suportei a ideia de vê-los ali, na rua, naquelas condições. A memória de Sofia aterrorizava-me, a urgência de ajudar, de proteger, apoderou-se de mim. “Por favor, venha para minha casa”, propus, surpreendendo-me com a minha própria impulsividade. “Tenho um quarto vazio, comida quente. Não podem passar a noite aqui.”
Ela hesitou, desconfiada, mas o choro do bebé intensificou-se, e o desespero nos seus olhos deu lugar a uma relutância em aceitar a ajuda. Acabou por anuir, e juntas, na fria escuridão da noite, caminhámos para a minha casa.
Em casa, tratei de lhes dar o que comer e um banho quente. O bebé, uma menina de poucos meses, era adorável. Dei-lhe umas roupinhas que tinham sido da Sofia quando era bebé, guardadas com carinho. A jovem, que se chamava Mariana, agradeceu com um sorriso fraco, mas os seus olhos continuavam a expressar uma profunda dor e cansaço.
Os dias que se seguiram foram estranhos. Mariana era calada, mas gentil. Ajudava nas tarefas domésticas, e eu observava-a a cuidar da sua filha, que ela chamava de Clara, com um amor incondicional. Quanto mais eu a via, mais forte ficava a semelhança com a minha Sofia. Os mesmos gestos delicados, a mesma forma de rir, a mesma doçura no olhar. Era como ter um pedaço da minha filha de volta.
Comecei a sentir um afeto profundo por Mariana e Clara. A solidão que me consumia desde a morte da Sofia parecia diminuir. A casa, antes tão silenciosa, encheu-se de vida com o choro e as risadas da Clara. Eu sonhava em dar-lhes uma nova vida, em ser uma avó para a Clara, em preencher o vazio que a perda da Sofia tinha deixado.
Uma tarde, decidi ir às compras. Antes de sair, comentei com Mariana que estaria de volta em uma hora. “Não se preocupe com nada, Mariana. Sintam-se em casa”, disse, com um sorriso. Deixei a carteira e o telemóvel na sala, sobre a mesa de centro, sem preocupações. Confiava nelas.
Quando regressei, uma hora depois, a casa estava estranhamente silenciosa. Chamei por Mariana e Clara, mas não houve resposta. O meu coração começou a acelerar. Percorri os quartos, a cozinha, a sala de estar. Ninguém.
Foi então que o meu olhar recaiu sobre a mesa de centro. A carteira estava lá, mas aberta. O meu telemóvel… tinha desaparecido. Fui ao meu quarto, e o pequeno cofre onde guardava as joias da família e algumas economias estava aberto, vazio.
O choque foi avassalador. Não era apenas o dinheiro, as joias. Era a traição. A pessoa em quem eu tinha depositado a minha confiança, que eu tinha acolhido com o coração aberto, tinha-me roubado e fugido. A imagem de Sofia, que eu tinha projetado em Mariana, desmoronou-se. Senti uma dor lancinante, mais profunda do que a dor do roubo. Era a dor da desilusão, a sensação de que, mais uma vez, a vida me pregava uma partida cruel.
Sentei-me no sofá, as lágrimas a escorrerem-me pelo rosto. A casa, antes cheia de uma nova esperança, voltou a ser um lugar de silêncio e vazio. A minha generosidade, nascida da minha dor e do meu amor pela minha filha, tinha sido explorada. E a chocante verdade era que, no fundo, eu não tinha acolhido Mariana por ela, mas pela minha Sofia. E a mendiga, com os olhos da minha filha, tinha-me roubado o que me restava: a fé na bondade humana.
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