“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.
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?”
My mother’s voice was quiet but excited. “Sarah, honey, I know you’re with Margaret today, but I needed to tell you—the package arrived. It’s even more beautiful than we hoped.”
Relief washed over me so hard I almost laughed.
“That’s wonderful,” I whispered. “I’ll stop by later.”
When I hung up, Margaret was watching me with narrowed suspicion.
“A package?” she asked. “Something for the wedding?”