Owen would find me slumped at the kitchen table, surrounded by pins and fabric scraps.
“You’re wearing yourself out for this project,” he said one night, handing me a cup of coffee. “When was the last time you slept more than two hours straight?”
“It’s almost done,” I mumbled, mouth full of pins.
“Family that hasn’t even paid for materials yet. You spent $400 of our baby savings, Eliza.”
He was right. Fine silk, quality lining, lace, all bought with money meant for our emergency fund. Nora kept saying she’d pay “soon.”
Two days before the wedding, I delivered six flawless, custom-made dresses. Each one fit perfectly, like they’d been made in a high-end boutique.
Nora was lounging on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
“Just hang them somewhere in the spare room,” she said, completely absorbed in her screen.
“Don’t you want to see them first? They turned out really beautiful.”
“I’m sure they’re okay.”
