Then Margaret’s friends arrived: Beatrice, whose pearls looked like they’d never met a clasp they didn’t like; Lillian, who spoke in long sentences that somehow said very little; and Joan, who kept glancing at my ring like she was verifying the diamond’s credentials.
“It’s tradition,” Margaret reminded me again, as if I’d forgotten. “These women have the best taste.”
The salon owner glided toward Margaret with air kisses.
“Maggie Thompson,” she cooed. “It’s been far too long.”
They exchanged compliments like currency. Then the owner turned to me.
“And this must be the bride,” she said, her smile professional and practiced. Her eyes flicked over me, measuring without a tape.
“Yes,” Margaret said. “This is Sarah. We’ll need something classic. Nothing too… fashion forward. Something to elevate her natural simplicity.”
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. My mother’s hand brushed my elbow, grounding me.
I tried on seven dresses that day.
Seven.
Each one was beautiful, objectively. Each one fit in the way a picture frame fits a photograph—tight around the edges, forcing me into a shape someone else preferred.
A satin ballgown that made me feel like I was wearing someone’s idea of royalty.