I’m Delw, 40, and I’ve been raising my son Bast alone since my husband died when Bast was eight. What I never expected was having to shield my 17-year-old boy from the very family that should have treasured him. It all started 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 in a way that twisted my gut.
I found him in his bedroom—the haven where wonders usually came to life. Sketches covered every surface, fabric samples dangled from pins, and his reliable sewing machine sat in the corner like a loyal companion.
This room had been his refuge since he was 12, when grief over losing his father pushed him to create beauty with his hands.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
He held up his phone, barely meeting my eyes. His gaze went empty, like part of him had switched off. “I never got an invitation to Aunt Odel’s wedding. I’m so hurt. I made her dress… and she doesn’t even want me there.”
My heart clenched. Five years ago, when Bast first found my old sewing machine in the attic, I never imagined it would become his anchor. He’d been struggling with his father’s death and was always quiet and withdrawn. But that machine gave him direction.
“Mom, can you teach me how this works?” he asked then, tracing his small fingers over the metal frame.
By 13, Bast designed his own patterns. By 15, he took orders from neighbors. Now, at 17, his work was stunning enough that my sister had pleaded with him to make her wedding dress when she got engaged last year.
Eight months earlier, Odel had practically glided into our kitchen, her engagement ring flashing in the afternoon light.
“Bast, honey, I have the most amazing request,” she chirped, sliding into the chair across from him. “You know how incredibly talented you are with design and sewing. Would you consider making my wedding dress?”
Bast looked up from his homework, completely caught off guard. “You really want me to make your wedding dress?”
“Of course I do! Think about how special that would be… wearing something made by my gifted nephew! It would mean the world to me. And naturally, you’ll have the best seat in the house. Front row, right next to your grandma.”
I watched my son’s face light up, a shy smile spreading across his features. “If you really trust me with something that important…”
“I absolutely do! This is going to be perfect, Bast. Just perfect.”
“I’ll cover the materials,” I offered, seeing the spark in my son’s eyes. “Consider it my contribution to your big day, Odel!”
Odel hugged us both, tears of thanks in her eyes. At least, I thought she was thankful.
What followed were months of Bast pouring his heart into that dress with 43 different sketches, endless fabric swatches that took over our dining table, and late nights where I’d find him bent over his machine, determined to nail every detail.
However, Odel’s feedback grew more and more picky:
“The sleeves look bulky. Can you make them tighter?”
“I hate this neckline. It makes me look wide.”
“Why does the lace look so cheap? Can’t you use something better?”
“This skirt is way too poofy. I said I wanted something elegant, not the princess kind!”
Each complaint chipped away at Bast’s confidence, but he kept going. He’d come to me, tired and upset after school and even more drained from the sewing machine.
“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 about it. Yesterday she said my work looked ‘amateur.’”
I should have stepped in then. I should have protected him from my sister’s careless words. Instead, I urged my son to push on, believing family meant something to Odel.
The final fitting was two weeks ago. When my sister slipped into Bast’s creation, our mother actually cried.
“Oh my goodness,” Mom whispered, her hand over her heart. “Bast, this is museum-quality work, sweetheart. It’s… it’s beautiful.”
The dress was indeed breathtaking. Hand-sewn pearls cascaded down the bodice. The lace sleeves were delicate as spider webs. And every stitch spoke of love and dedication.
Even Odel seemed touched. “It’s beautiful, Bast! Really beautiful!”
For a moment, I thought we’d turned a corner. I thought she finally saw the gift my son had given her.
“How could she not want me at her wedding, Mom?” Bast’s soft and shattered voice yanked me out of my thoughts like ice water to the face.
“There has to be a mistake, honey,” I said, grabbing my phone and texting Odel:
“Hey Odel, Bast says he didn’t receive a wedding invitation. Did it get lost in the mail?”
Her reply came back within minutes: “Oh right! We decided on adults only. No kids. He’ll understand… he’s mature for his age.”
“Adults only? Odel, he’s 17 and he MADE your dress.”
“No exceptions, Delw. The venue has strict rules. He’ll understand.”
“Understand what?” I called her right away and let loose the second she picked up.
“Delw, please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Harder? Bast spent eight months of his life on your dress. Eight months of staying up until midnight, pricking his fingers raw… and redoing everything because you kept changing your mind.”
“I appreciate what he did, but this is my wedding day. I want it to be sophisticated. And elegant. You know how teenagers can be.”
“How teenagers can be? This teenager created a work of art for you!”
“Look, I’ll make it up to him. Maybe we can have lunch after the honeymoon.”
“Lunch? You really think lunch makes up for breaking the one promise that kept him going through months of your nitpicking?”
“Some promises just don’t work out, big sis! Not my fault if you don’t get that. I’ve got things to do. Talk later!” She said it all in that fake-sweet tone that made it sting even worse and then hung up like it was nothing.
That night, I walked in to find Bast at the kitchen table, carefully folding the wedding dress into tissue paper. His hands moved with care, like each fold carried weight.
“What are you doing, baby?”
He didn’t look up. “Packing it. Figured I’d send it to Aunt Odel anyway… like she asked.”
“Bast, look at me.”
He turned, and I saw the little boy who’d asked me why his daddy couldn’t come to his school play. His eyes carried the same confused hurt and the same bewilderment at being forgotten by someone who should have loved him.
“Sweetie, she doesn’t deserve to wear your work.”
“Mom, it’s okay. I guess I was stupid to think she actually wanted me there.”
“You weren’t stupid. You were trusting. There’s a difference.”
I pulled out my phone and started typing a message to Odel. I read it one last time, took a deep breath, and hit send:
“Odel, since Bast won’t be at your wedding, you won’t be wearing his dress either.”
My phone rang within 30 seconds.
“DELW, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?”
“I’m thinking clearly for the first time in months, Odel.”
“My wedding is in five days! What am I supposed to wear?”
“That’s your problem. You should have thought about that before you decided my son wasn’t worth a seat at your wedding.”
“It was a GIFT! You can’t take back a gift!”
“A gift? Gifts are given with love between people who respect each other. You’ve shown Bast nothing but disrespect for months.”
“This is insane! He’s just a teenager!”
“He’s your nephew who bled for your dress. Literally! Did you even notice the tiny red stains on the inner seam when you tried it on? That’s Bast’s blood from where he pricked his fingers working late into the night… for you.”
Silence. Not the kind that waits to listen… just the kind that proves she had nothing decent left to say.
“Odel, are you there?”
“How much do you want?”
“We’re selling it to someone who’ll actually appreciate it.”
“SELLING? Delw, you can’t sell my wedding dress!”
“It’s not your wedding dress anymore… unless you’re ready to pay $800 for it! That’s what custom wedding dresses cost.”
“EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS?! For something made by a kid?”
“Made by a talented young man who trusted you. Someone else will pay for it gladly.”
I hung up and immediately listed the dress online. Bast watched me type the description: “Stunning custom wedding dress, size 8, handcrafted by gifted young designer. Museum-quality work. $800.”
“Mom, what if she apologizes?”
“Then she can call back and make this right. A real apology. To you.”
Within an hour, we had 15 inquiries. By evening, a bride named Eluned drove over from Riverside to see the gown.
“This is extraordinary!” she exclaimed, examining Bast’s intricate beadwork. “You made this yourself?”
Bast nodded shyly.
“I’ve never seen craftsmanship like this. It’s absolutely breathtaking!” Eluned added with delight.
She didn’t hesitate with the payment. “I’m getting married in a few days. This dress is going to make my dreams come true.”
As Eluned carefully loaded the dress into her car, Bast stood beside me on the porch.
“She really loved it, didn’t she, Mom?”
“She saw it for what it really is… a masterpiece.”
Odel called the next morning, panic clear in her voice.
“Delw, I’ve been thinking. Maybe I overreacted. I can… make room for Bast, okay? I just… I need that dress. Please.”
“Too late.”
“What do you mean too late?”
“The dress is GONE! Sold to a bride who cried when she saw it.”
“Gone? You actually sold it?”
“To someone who told Bast he was incredibly talented. Who made him feel valued for the first time in months.”
“But it was MINE!”
“It’s gone, Odel. Just like your relationship with Bast.”
The scream that followed was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
On the day of Odel’s wedding, Bast and I were having pancakes. Then a few days later, his phone buzzed.
“Mom, look at this.”
Eluned had sent photos from her wedding. She looked radiant in Bast’s dress, absolutely glowing beside her new husband.
Her message made my heart swell: “Bast, thank you for creating the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. You have an incredible gift. I’ve already recommended you to three of my friends. Never let anyone make you doubt your talent. :)”
“She wants to hire me for her sister’s wedding next spring,” Bast said, grinning.
“That’s wonderful, honey.”
“And Mom? I think Aunt Odel actually did me a favor.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“If she’d kept her promise, I might never have learned that my work has real value… that I don’t have to accept being treated badly just because someone’s family.”
Last night, Bast surprised me with dinner and a movie—his treat with his first professional commission payment.
“What’s all this for?” I asked as he plated homemade pasta.
“For showing me what real love looks like, Mom. For teaching me that I’m worth fighting for.”
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is refuse to let someone treat your child as disposable. Odel got her wedding day, but Bast got something far more valuable: the knowledge that his work matters, his feelings matter, and his mother will always stand between him and anyone who tries to diminish him.
With his earnings, he bought me the softest cashmere sweater I’ve ever owned… a pale blue one with pearl buttons.
“It reminded me of that dress I made,” he said when he gave it to me this morning. “But this one’s for someone who actually deserves beautiful things.”
That’s my boy. And I couldn’t be prouder!