A lace mermaid gown that hugged too much and made me hyper-aware of every inhale.
A structured A-line with sleeves Margaret praised because it was “modest,” which in her language meant controlled.
Every time I stepped out, Margaret and her committee leaned in, whispered, and made small faces.
“It’s… fine,” Beatrice would say, which meant it was not.
“It’s lovely, but perhaps not for a Thompson wedding,” Lillian murmured, as if the wedding itself was a brand.
When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I didn’t see myself. I saw a version of me someone else was building—one who belonged in Margaret’s world, if she could be shaped correctly.
By the seventh dress, my throat felt tight.
The salon owner touched my arm gently. “Finding the perfect gown can be a process,” she said, delicate as spun sugar. “Perhaps we should schedule another appointment.”
Margaret’s smile stayed fixed. “Of course. We’ll continue until we get it right.”
That was when my phone rang.
My mother’s ringtone—soft chimes—felt like an escape hatch.
I stepped aside and answered. “Mom?”