My name is Delw, I’m 40, and I’ve been raising my son Bast on my own since my husband passed away when Bast was eight. I never imagined having to shield my 17-year-old from the very family that should have cherished him. It all began when my sister Odel broke his heart in the cruelest way possible.
“Mom, I need to show you something,” Bast said last Tuesday, his voice flat and hollow.
I found him in his bedroom, his sanctuary where creativity always came to life. Sketches covered every surface, fabric samples dangled from pins, and his sewing machine sat in the corner like a loyal companion.
This room had been his refuge since he was 12, when the grief over losing his father pushed him to create beauty with his hands.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
He held up his phone, barely making eye contact. His eyes looked empty, as if part of him had shut off. “I never got an invitation to Aunt Odel’s wedding. It hurts… I made her dress… and she doesn’t even want me there.”
My heart clenched. Five years ago, when Bast discovered my old sewing machine in the attic, I never imagined it would become his anchor. He had been quiet and withdrawn since losing his father, but that machine gave him purpose.
“Mom, can you show me how this works?” he asked, tracing his fingers over the metal frame.
By 13, Bast was designing his own patterns. By 15, he was taking orders from neighbors. Now, at 17, his work was so impressive that my sister had begged him to make her wedding dress.
Eight months earlier, Odel had glided into our kitchen, her engagement ring glinting in the afternoon light.
“Bast, honey, I have the most amazing request,” she said, sitting down. “You’re so talented at design and sewing. Will you make my wedding dress?”
Bast looked up, surprised. “You really want me to make your dress?”
“Of course! It would be so special… wearing something made by my gifted nephew! And of course, you’ll have the best seat in the house, right next to Grandma.”
I watched a shy smile spread across his face. “If you really trust me with something so important…”
“I completely trust you! It will be perfect,” she said.
“I’ll cover the materials,” I offered, seeing the spark in his eyes. “Consider it my contribution to your big day, Odel!”
She hugged us both, tears in her eyes. At least, that’s what I thought.
For months, Bast poured his heart into that dress, creating 43 different sketches, spreading fabric swatches across the dining table, and working late into the night on his machine, determined to perfect every detail.
Yet, Odel’s critiques grew harsher:
“The sleeves are too bulky. Make them tighter.”
“I hate this neckline; it makes me look wide.”
“This lace looks cheap. Can you get better fabric?”
“The skirt is too poofy. I wanted elegant, not princessy!”
Each comment chipped away at Bast’s confidence, but he pressed on. He’d come to me after school, exhausted and frustrated.
“She changes her mind every week, Mom. I’ve redone the bodice four times.”
“Wedding planning is stressful, honey. She’s probably just nervous.”
“But she’s being mean. Yesterday, she called my work ‘amateur.’”
I should have stepped in. I should have protected him. But I kept hoping family meant something to Odel.
The final fitting was two weeks ago. When Odel slipped into Bast’s creation, our mother cried.
“Oh my goodness, Bast, it’s museum-quality work. It’s… beautiful,” she whispered.
The dress truly was breathtaking. Hand-sewn pearls adorned the bodice, the lace sleeves were delicate as spider webs, and every stitch reflected love and dedication.
Even Odel seemed moved. “It’s beautiful, Bast! Really beautiful!”
For a moment, I thought she finally understood. But Bast’s soft, broken voice pulled me back:
“How could she not want me at her wedding, Mom?”
I texted Odel: “Hey, Bast says he didn’t get your invitation. Did it get lost?”
Her reply came quickly: “We decided adults-only. He’ll understand… he’s mature for his age.”
“Adults-only? Odel, he MADE your dress.”
“No exceptions, Delw. He’ll understand.”
I felt my blood boil and called her immediately.
“Delw, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” she said.
“Bast spent eight months on your dress! Working late nights, pricking his fingers… all for you!”
“I appreciate it, but it’s my wedding day…”
“A gift? Gifts are given with love and respect. You’ve shown him nothing but disrespect.”
After a tense silence, I said:
“Since Bast won’t be at your wedding, you won’t wear his dress either.”
Panic filled her voice: “You’re insane! My dress!”
“It’s gone. Sold to someone who will truly appreciate it.”
Bast watched, hesitant. “What if she apologizes?”
“Then she can make it right… sincerely.”
Within hours, we had 15 inquiries. A bride, Eluned, drove from Riverside and fell in love with the gown.
“This is extraordinary! You made it yourself?” she exclaimed. Bast nodded shyly. “I’ve never seen craftsmanship like this!”
The dress sold, and Bast finally felt valued.
Odel called the next day, panicked. “Maybe I overreacted… I can make room for Bast?”
“Too late. The dress is gone. Just like your relationship with Bast.”
On Odel’s wedding day, Bast and I ate pancakes, laughed, and enjoyed the morning. Days later, Eluned sent photos: she was glowing in Bast’s dress.
She even recommended him to her friends. “Never let anyone make you doubt your talent,” she wrote.
Through this experience, Bast learned the value of his work and that he deserves respect. With his first professional earnings, he bought me the softest pale-blue cashmere sweater with pearl buttons.
“It reminded me of the dress I made,” he said. “But this one’s for someone who truly deserves beautiful things.”
That’s my son… and I couldn’t be prouder.
