I learned the hard way that mixing family with business can blow up spectacularly. I trusted my half-sister, Sabrina, to honor her promise, but she acted like she was doing me a favor when I was the one giving everything. In the end, she paid the price for her actions.
I’m Tricia, 25, a freelance hair and makeup artist on weekends. It’s not a fortune, but it covers the bills and brings me joy—I love helping women feel confident and beautiful.
Sabrina, my 28-year-old stepsister, has always been the golden child. I’ve been the responsible one, smoothing over tensions and keeping the peace. Our relationship has always been fragile. She has a way of exploiting her place in the family, leaning on everyone’s admiration. We’ve even clashed before because of it.
Years ago, when I was just starting as a makeup artist, Sabrina told a friend I’d do her birthday hair and makeup for free—full glam, which is expensive—simply because I was family. She never asked me.
When I contacted the client and quoted my actual price, she was shocked. Her friend expected a free service. It caused awkwardness all around and strained Sabrina and me further.
So when she called months before her wedding, I hesitated. But her tone sounded different—maybe she was trying to mend fences.
“Sooo, you’ll do my hair and makeup, right?” she said, all sweetness. “And the bridesmaids too—six of them. You’re so talented!”
I paused. “That’s a lot of people. I’ll need an assistant.”
“No worries,” she said. “I’ll pay. Just the family discount.”
For once, she wasn’t expecting free work. I quoted $500—a steal for seven full looks—and she agreed immediately. No contract, because it was family.
On the wedding day, chaos reigned—dresses over chairs, nerves buzzing.
Sabrina spotted me and crossed her arms. “Well, look who finally showed up.”
I stayed calm. “I’m on time. We need to start to get everyone ready.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just don’t overcharge me. Remember, it’s family.”
“I quoted a price,” I said firmly. “Let’s keep it professional today.”
She grumbled but let it go. My assistant and I unpacked and got to work.
Hours later, the bridesmaids were thrilled with their reflections. Even the photographer complimented us. Sabrina, of course, was harder to please, making me redo her eyeliner three times.
“Ugh, it’s still uneven. Do you even know what you’re doing?” she snapped.
“I am,” I said evenly. “You asked me because you know I’m good. But fidgeting won’t help.”
Finally, she looked in the mirror and gasped. “I look like a star.”
The day went on beautifully. The ceremony was perfect, the reception lively. Guests complimented the bridal party’s looks, and I quietly accepted thanks from the bridesmaids. Sabrina, however, never acknowledged me as the artist. She danced, laughed, and posed for pictures as if nothing had happened.
Exhausted but confident in my work, I expected the payment she promised.
The next day, I messaged her. No reply. Days later, she finally texted:
“Lol, I’m not paying. Family shouldn’t charge family. Plus, think of the exposure from the photos.”
I reminded her of the promise, the assistant, the huge discount. She ignored me.
I felt betrayed. But karma was already on its way.
A few days later, she called, panicked. “You have to help me! It’s a disaster!”
I asked, “Who’s ‘they’?”
“The stylists I hired after the wedding! They ruined my hair and makeup—my hair is fried and uneven, makeup blotchy! Everyone’s laughing at my pictures!”
“Tricia, you’re my sister,” she begged. “You have to fix it.”
I stayed calm. “I was your sister when I woke up early, did your hair and makeup, worked with an assistant, and gave you a huge discount. You promised to pay, then refused. No, Sabrina. Not this time.”
She cried, pleaded, begged. I hung up. Relief washed over me for the first time in years.
The next day, my mother called, scolding me for not helping Sabrina.
“Mom, I did help her. I worked my hands off for her wedding for almost nothing. She chose not to pay. That’s not a mistake. That’s a choice.”
Silence. I didn’t waver.
From that day on, I stopped mixing family with business. I’d learned my lesson—hard, painful, but necessary. And I would never make that mistake again.