“It’s tradition,” she said. “Besides, several of my friends would love to join us. They’ve known David since he was a child. Their opinion matters.”
What she really meant was that my opinion mattered less.
My mother, Catherine, listened quietly when I told her. She had always been a calm presence in my life, the kind of woman who could handle chaos without becoming it. She taught kindergarten for years before moving into support work at the district, and everyone in town adored her because she treated people like people.
“Do you want them there?” she asked.
“No,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to start a war.”
My mother reached across the table and squeezed my fingers. “Honey, you can’t avoid conflict by shrinking. You only delay it.”
I nodded, but my stomach still twisted.
Two weeks before the salon appointment, my mother called me with a softness in her voice that usually meant she was trying not to sound too excited.
“The package we discussed arrived,” she said. “It’s even more beautiful than we hoped.”
I paused, heart lifting. “Really?”
“Really,” she said. “And I think… I think it’s going to help you in more ways than one.”