When my cousin asked me to sing at her wedding, I was honored. She said she wanted live vocals for the ceremony, cocktail hour, and reception—and promised to pay me for my time. I spent weeks rehearsing, coordinating with the planner, and even brought my own equipment. The day was beautiful, and I gave it my all. Guests complimented the music, and my cousin hugged me with tears in her eyes. But when I followed up about payment days later, she brushed me off. “It was family,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d actually expect money.” I was stunned—and hurt.
I reminded her that we’d agreed on compensation, and that I’d turned down other paid gigs to be there. She said I should be grateful for the exposure and that “real professionals don’t charge family.” That stung. I’d always supported her, even helped with wedding planning. But now, she was treating me like a free service. I wasn’t asking for thousands—just what we agreed. Her tone shifted. She accused me of being greedy and said I was ruining the memory of her big day. I couldn’t believe how quickly gratitude turned into guilt-tripping.
I tried to stay calm, but the more I explained, the more defensive she became. Eventually, she stopped responding altogether. I reached out to her husband, who said he “wasn’t involved in that part.” It was clear they had no intention of paying. I felt used—not just as a performer, but as a cousin. I’d given my time, talent, and heart to make her day special. And now, I was left with silence and resentment. It wasn’t about the money anymore—it was about respect.
Friends told me to let it go, but I couldn’t. I posted a polite message online, thanking everyone who appreciated the music and clarifying that I wasn’t compensated. I didn’t name names, but word got around. Some family members reached out, shocked by her behavior. She eventually sent a short message saying I was “making drama.” But I wasn’t. I was setting a boundary. If you promise payment—especially to someone who works professionally—you honor it. Family doesn’t mean free labor.
Since then, I’ve changed how I handle requests. I draw up simple contracts, even for relatives. I’ve learned that clarity protects relationships. If someone values your work, they’ll respect your terms. If not, they’ll show you exactly how little they think of your time. I still sing at weddings—but only when the agreement is mutual and fair. My cousin taught me that lesson the hard way.
So here’s to the artists who give their all. To the professionals who deserve respect, even from family. To the boundaries that protect your worth. And to the truth that exposure doesn’t pay the bills—integrity does.
