“The package we talked about arrived,” she said. “And it’s even more beautiful than we imagined.”
The boutique Maison Laurent looked like a museum for expensive fabric. Crystal chandeliers. Soft carpet. Mannequins displaying gowns like artwork.
Judith stood near the entrance greeting friends, including a socialite named Harriet Langley.
They clearly expected to judge everything I tried on.
Seven dresses later my throat felt tight with frustration. Every gown looked like it belonged to someone else’s life.
Then my mom texted me a reminder about the mysterious package waiting at home.
Just thinking about it made me feel better.
Two weeks later Judith called an emergency planning meeting after hearing rumors that I bought a dress somewhere else.
“Sarah,” she said carefully, “I heard you purchased a gown without consulting us.”
“I did find my dress,” I replied calmly.
Judith looked shocked.
“But nothing has been approved yet.”
“It’s my dress,” I said.
She demanded to see it.
So I walked to the car, grabbed the garment bag, and brought it inside.
When I unzipped it, the room went quiet.