Two weeks ago, I got invited to a baby shower.

I volunteered to cook for 50 people.

I spent the whole day cooking. Then the night before the event, she messaged me that she had to uninvite me but “wanted” me to still drop off the food.

I stared at my phone like it had slapped me in the face.

Her exact words: “Hey love! I’m so grateful you offered to cook! Just a small update—we’ve had to limit guests for space, but we’d still love the food if you can bring it. Hope that’s okay!”

No apology. Not even a proper thank you. Just a smiley face.

Now, this wasn’t some stranger. This was Reva—someone I’ve known since high school. We weren’t best friends, but close enough to share rides, swap clothes, and crash on each other’s couches in college.
Over the years, we drifted—life, jobs, all that. But when she moved back to town last year and found out she was pregnant, I was one of the first to reach out.

I offered to help plan. She said her cousin had it.
I offered to chip in for decorations. She said they had a theme.
So when the RSVP link went out, I was honestly surprised to see my name.
Surprised—and a little excited.

I figured maybe we were reconnecting. Maybe the baby softened something.
So I messaged her, “I’ll cook for it! Let me take care of the food.”
She said, “OMG YES. You’re a lifesaver.”

And for days, I planned the menu.
Three trays of biryani, two pasta bakes, garlic butter chicken, samosas, salad, lemon tarts. I took time off work. Grocery bill was $187. I didn’t ask her to pay.

The morning before the shower, I was stirring butter chicken when her text came in.
No call. No explanation beyond “space is tight.”
But she still wanted the food.

My first reaction was disbelief. Then heat. The kind that flushes your neck.
I called my cousin Riya and read the message out loud.

She didn’t even let me finish.
“Hell no. You are not cooking for someone who uninvites you and still wants the food. Who does she think she is?”
I laughed, but my stomach twisted.
“I already cooked half of it,” I said.

“Then don’t bring it. Keep it. Feed yourself for a week. Take it to a shelter. But do not let her walk all over you.”

I said I’d think about it. But I kept cooking.
Out of habit. Out of guilt. I don’t know.

The next morning, I loaded the trays into my back seat and drove across town. I’d told myself I was just dropping it off, nothing more.
She didn’t even come out to say hi.
She sent her cousin to the curb.

Her cousin smiled like nothing was wrong. “Reva says thank you! This all smells amazing!”
I nodded. My hands were shaking.
The cousin didn’t even offer to help carry it.

That night, I cried. Not because of the baby shower, not really. But because I felt like a fool. Like someone people use because I never say no.

The next morning, I posted on my private Instagram. Just a blurry photo of the trays and a caption: “Made food for 50. Got uninvited. Still dropped it off. Never again.”

I didn’t name names. I didn’t even add hashtags.
But people started messaging me.
My old friend Ashir DM’d, “Wait. Are you talking about Reva’s shower??”

I didn’t reply. He sent another: “You’re not the only one. She did the same to Mel. Asked her to make cookies, then uninvited her too.”

That made my blood run cold.
Mel was Reva’s old coworker. Sweet as sugar. She’d once baked a five-tier wedding cake for Reva’s bridal shower.

I messaged Mel. She confirmed it.
“She said the venue was ‘too small’ and they had to cut people. But then I saw pics on Facebook. There were at least 60 people there. And three cookie tables.”

I opened Facebook, heart pounding.
Reva had posted a full album: “Our sweet day!”
The room was huge. Tables, balloons, photo booths. A whole damn dessert wall.
And yeah—there were my lemon tarts.
Front and center.

She had used me.
And not just me.

I went back to the post. Edited the caption.
“Turns out it wasn’t just me. Uninvited multiple people but still took our food. I don’t even care about the party. Just be a decent human.”

That’s when things blew up.
People started commenting. Sharing similar stories.
Someone said Reva did the same thing at her engagement—had friends pitch in for decor, then “suddenly downsized” the guest list.
Someone else said Reva still owed her money from college.

By evening, I had 58 DMs.
Half from people telling me their stories. Half from others saying “you should’ve known better.”

But the one that made my jaw drop?
A message from Reva’s mom.

She wrote:
“I’m so sorry this happened to you. I didn’t know until this morning. Please know you’re not alone, and what you did for her—feeding that crowd—was more gracious than she deserved.”

I blinked at that message. For a second, I felt awkward. Embarrassed.
But then I felt…validated.
I wasn’t crazy.

Three days later, Reva messaged me.
A paragraph-long text that somehow managed to blame me, call me “dramatic,” and still not say sorry.
She ended with, “I just didn’t expect you to make it a public thing. Thought you were better than that.”

I stared at it for five minutes. Then I typed back:

“I thought you were better than this too. But I guess we both learned something.”

I didn’t block her. I didn’t respond after that.
Sometimes silence is the loudest reply.

And here’s the thing:
This whole thing hurt.
Not because of the food. Not even because of the invite.
But because I thought I was helping a friend.
Turns out, I was just another name on her free-labor list.

But the twist?

That post I made—quietly venting into the void—ended up reaching people I hadn’t talked to in years.
Ashir messaged again and said, “You should do catering. Like, real catering. People trust your cooking more than actual restaurants.”

I laughed. But it planted a seed.

A week later, I made a new Instagram page. Posted pictures of dishes I’d made over the years.
Within a month, I had my first paid event: 25-person anniversary dinner.
Then a birthday.
Then a company lunch.

Last week, I catered for a hospital fundraiser.
200 people. Paid in full, up front. I hired two helpers.
Used my own trays this time. With my logo.

Guess who liked the post on my business page?
Reva’s mom.

She even left a comment: “Proud of you. Let me know if you ever need referrals.”

That almost made me cry.

I think about that baby shower sometimes.
Not out of bitterness, but because it was a turning point.
It reminded me that kindness doesn’t mean being a doormat.
And boundaries don’t make you selfish.

People will take what you give—especially if it’s free.
But the moment you start valuing your time and talent, the real ones stick around.
And the users disappear.

So yeah. I got uninvited. But I also got something better.
A new direction.
A spine.

And a catering business I never knew I had in me.

If you’ve ever been used, underappreciated, or quietly taken for granted—just know: the right people see you.
Keep doing what you love. But do it for those who deserve it.

And next time someone “forgets” to invite you but still wants your help?

You have every right to say:
No.

If this hit home, give it a like or share—someone out there needs the reminder.