“Just something my mother wanted me to see,” I said carefully.
Margaret’s gaze sharpened. “Sarah, you’re not planning to make any major decisions without consultation, are you?”
I forced my voice calm, summoning every ounce of patience I used with five-year-olds who refused to share crayons.
“I appreciate everyone’s time today,” I said. “But I think I need time to reflect.”
Margaret looked affronted. “We haven’t found anything suitable yet.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I need time.”
David met me in the parking lot afterward, because he had promised he would. He took one look at my face and pulled me into a hug.
“How bad was it?” he asked softly.
“Imagine being graded on your existence,” I said, my voice cracking. “And the rubric is ‘Thompson-worthy.’”
David exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, and meant it. “But I’m not doing that again.”
David tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
I hesitated, then said, “I found a dress. Not there. Somewhere else.”
His expression softened. “Do you love it?”
“Yes,” I said, and the word came out like air after holding my breath too long. “I feel like me in it.”
“Then that’s the dress,” David said simply.
Two weeks later, Margaret called an “emergency meeting” at her home.
David and I arrived to find her in the sunroom, surrounded by wedding magazines, swatches, and sample table settings like a general preparing for battle.
She didn’t bother with greeting.
“Sarah,” she began. “I’ve heard concerning rumors that you purchased a wedding dress without proper consultation. Some off-the-rack item from a boutique in your hometown.”
I took a deep breath. “I did find my dress.”
Margaret’s perfectly manicured hand fluttered to her throat. “But we haven’t approved anything.”
David finally spoke, his voice steady. “Mom. It’s Sarah’s dress.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to him like she was recalculating. “Of course,” she said with forced brightness. “I simply want to ensure Sarah doesn’t feel uncomfortable standing beside proper society brides in photos. People notice these things.”
Beatrice, of course, was there, perched on a chair like she’d been summoned for moral support.
“Perhaps,” Beatrice offered, “we could see it. Just to understand what alterations might be needed.”
I hesitated. Then I nodded.
“Actually,” I said, “I brought it.”
Margaret’s eyebrows lifted. “You brought it here?”
“It’s in the car,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”