I’m Mabel, 40, and I’ve raised my son Adrian alone since his father passed when he was eight. He’s seventeen now — quiet, gifted, and full of heart. But nothing could have prepared us for how his own aunt, Danielle, would betray that kindness.
It all started months ago when Danielle got engaged. She came over, beaming, showing off her ring. “Adrian, I need your help,” she said at our kitchen table. “You’re so talented — will you design my wedding dress?”
Adrian’s eyes lit up. Sewing was his sanctuary, his therapy after losing his dad. “You really want me to make it?” he asked, shy but hopeful.
“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.”
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