Margaret’s eyes flicked to him like she was recalculating. “Of course,” she said with forced brightness. “I simply want to ensure Sarah doesn’t feel uncomfortable standing beside proper society brides in photos. People notice these things.”
Beatrice, of course, was there, perched on a chair like she’d been summoned for moral support.
“Perhaps,” Beatrice offered, “we could see it. Just to understand what alterations might be needed.”
I hesitated. Then I nodded.
“Actually,” I said, “I brought it.”
Margaret’s eyebrows lifted. “You brought it here?”
“It’s in the car,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”
As I walked back to the car, my heart pounded. Not because I doubted the dress.
Because I knew Margaret wanted this moment to be humiliating.
She wanted to hold my choice up under her chandelier lighting and declare it inadequate.
But for the first time, I wasn’t walking back into a room to be judged without armor.
Because my mother’s “package” wasn’t just a dress.
It was a truth Margaret hadn’t bothered to ask for.
And I was done shrinking.