“Of course! It would mean the world to wear something made by my nephew,” she gushed. “You’ll have the best seat in the house — right next to Grandma.”
For months, our dining room became Adrian’s studio. Sketches lined the walls, rolls of lace and satin littered the table, and coffee mugs sat half-finished. But Danielle’s critiques were endless and harsh.
“The sleeves are too puffy. The neckline makes me look wide. The lace looks cheap.”
Every week, he’d sigh and say, “She hates it, Mom. But I’ll fix it.” Still, he poured his heart into the gown. By the final fitting, the dress was breathtaking — delicate layers, shimmering beadwork, perfection. Even Danielle seemed impressed for a moment.
“It’s perfect,” she said. Adrian smiled with pride for the first time in months.
Then last week, that smile vanished.
“Mom,” he whispered, pale, holding his phone. “I never got an invitation to Aunt Danielle’s wedding.”
I thought it was a mistake. I called her. “Danielle, he spent eight months on that dress!”
“It’s adults-only. He’ll understand,” she said coldly.
“Rules? He’s practically why your wedding looks like this!” I snapped.
Her response? “It’s my day. He’ll get over it.”
That night, Adrian quietly folded the gown. “I’ll send it anyway,” he murmured.
“No,” I said firmly. “She doesn’t get to treat you like this.”
I sent Danielle a message:
“If Adrian isn’t welcome at your wedding, you’re not wearing his dress.”
The call came immediately. “Mabel! You can’t do that! The wedding is in five days!”
“I can. Maybe you should’ve thought about that before humiliating him.”
“It was a gift!”
“No. Gifts come from respect. You’ve shown none.”
She screamed. I quoted $800 — professional dress price for a professional’s work — and hung up.
I listed the gown online:
“Custom-made wedding dress, hand-sewn with exceptional craftsmanship by a young artist.”
