She didn’t say a word, but her eyes were fixed on the simple silk dress in the corner.
I walked toward the $10,000 gown first. I touched the stiff fabric. It felt cold. It felt like a costume.
I imagined walking down the aisle in it, the weight of the crystals pulling at my shoulders, the stiff bodice making it hard to breathe.
I turned to Eleanor and saw the smug smile beginning to form on her face. She thought she had won.
But then, I stepped away. I walked toward the simple lace gown.
I realized that for years, I had been letting other people define what “high value” meant for me.
I thought it meant being the loudest, the richest, or the most impeccably dressed person in the room.
I thought it meant proving I belonged by showing off what I could afford.
But as I touched the soft lace of the second dress, a memory hit me.
It was a memory of my grandmother, who owned two good dresses her entire life but gave half her paycheck to the neighbor whose house had burned down.
It was a memory of my mother, who wore the same coat for ten years so I could have piano lessons.
I looked Eleanor straight in the eye, my voice steady for the first time in months.