y MIL ordered me a dress four sizes too small for her anniversary party, then laughed when I said it wouldn’t fit. I bought my own dress instead. But at the party, I overheard two women talking about the dresses Clara had chosen for them, and suddenly realized mine wasn’t the only one with secrets.
The dress was beautiful.
That was the worst part.
My MIL ordered me a dress four sizes too small for her anniversary party.
Blue satin, narrow waist, delicate sleeves, the kind of thing I might have chosen for myself before pregnancy changed what fit comfortably.
My daughter was three months old.
So when Clara called while I was at a department store and said she’d already ordered mine for her 40th anniversary dinner, I agreed to wait.
She’d already ordered mine for her 40th anniversary dinner.
Then I checked the tag.
The number was so far from my current size that I assumed the boutique had made some ridiculous mistake.
I stepped into the dress anyway.
It stopped before I could get it over my hips.
The number was so far from my current size.
I stared at myself in the mirror, one arm still caught awkwardly in the fabric.
My baby started fussing from the bassinet.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I know.”
I peeled the dress off, folded it back into the box, and called Clara.
I stared at myself in the mirror, one arm still caught awkwardly in the fabric.
She answered on the second ring.
“Did it arrive?”
“Yes. I think they sent the wrong size.”
There was a pause.
Then Clara laughed.
“No, honey. That’s yours.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Clara, I can’t even get it on.”
“No, honey. That’s yours.”
“I know. The party is two weeks away,” she said. “Plenty of time.”
“For what?”
Another little laugh.
“It’s time for you to lose weight.”
I looked toward the bassinet.
My daughter had one fist beside her cheek and the deeply offended expression she wore whenever the world failed to feed her quickly enough.
“It’s time for you to lose weight.”
“Clara, I had a baby three months ago.”
“And?”
“And I’m not losing four dress sizes in two weeks.”
“Then perhaps you’ll finally have some motivation.”
I didn’t answer.
Clara kept going.
“My son has always taken care of himself. The least you could do is make an effort too.”
“Then perhaps you’ll finally have some motivation.”
“An effort?”
“Don’t turn this into drama. Eat less. Walk more. You’ve had months.”
“Months?”
“Jennifer, when was the last time you looked at yourself properly?”
I hung up.
Simon came home an hour later.
I was feeding the baby on the couch when he saw the dress box.
“Don’t turn this into drama. Eat less. Walk more. You’ve had months.”
“That the famous anniversary dress?”
I looked at him.
“Your mother ordered it four sizes too small.”
Simon stopped halfway through taking off his jacket.
“By accident?”
“No.”
His face crumpled.
I told him the rest.
The laughter.
The two-week deadline.
The suggestion that his wife needed to become more attractive for him.
“Your mother ordered it four sizes too small.”
Simon sat beside me and rubbed one hand over his face.
“Jen…”
“Don’t.”
He looked at me.
“Please don’t say she’s just being your mother,” I blurted.
His hand dropped.
For years, that had been his answer.
Clara criticized my cooking?
“That’s just Mom.”
“Please don’t say she’s just being your mother.”
She asked whether Simon really liked the way I decorated our house?
“Ignore her.”
He always supported me… privately.
That distinction had never bothered me as much as it did now.
“I’m not going to wear it,” I said.
“Of course you’re not.”
“I’ll buy something else.”
He always supported me… privately.
“We’ll buy something else,” Simon corrected.
I looked down at our sleeping daughter.
Simon followed my eyes.
Then he sort of mumbled, “I should’ve shut this down a long time ago.”
I didn’t answer.
Two days later, Simon came shopping with me.
“I should’ve shut this down a long time ago.”
I chose a nice dress with soft fabric and a waist that sat where my waist actually existed now.
I could sit in it.
Breathe in it.
Raise my arms without threatening the structural integrity of the garment.
When I stepped out of the fitting room, Simon smiled.
“That one!”
I chose a nice dress with soft fabric and a waist that sat where my waist actually existed now.
“You haven’t seen the others,” I said.
“Don’t care.”
I turned sideways toward the mirror.
Simon appeared behind me in the reflection.
“You comfortable?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’re done.”
I bought it.
What I didn’t know was that Simon made a phone call later that afternoon.
“You haven’t seen the others.”
The anniversary dinner was being held at an expensive restaurant outside the city, the kind of place with linen napkins folded like sculptures and a private room larger than our first apartment.
Clara loved events like that.
She loved rules too.
The anniversary dinner was being held at an expensive restaurant outside the city.
Women in blue or black.
Men in tuxedos.
No casual jackets.
No patterned ties.
Professional photographer at 7:30.
Family portrait before dessert.
Clara had emailed everyone a three-page schedule.
When Simon and I walked inside, Dave spotted us first.
“There they are!”
Clara had emailed everyone a three-page schedule.
My father-in-law crossed the room and hugged Simon, then me.
“You look lovely, Jennifer.”
“Thank you.”
Then Clara turned around.
Her eyes went directly to my dress.
“That’s NOT what I ordered.”
“No,” I acknowledged.
Clara gave me a slow once-over.
“I can see that.”
“That’s NOT what I ordered.”
Simon moved closer beside me.
I kept my voice pleasant.
“The other one didn’t fit… so I…”
“It would have if you’d listened,” she shot back.
Dave looked between us.
“Clara…”
“What? I’m not going to lie to her.”
Then she pinched the fabric at her own waist.
“The other one didn’t fit… so I…”
“This one doesn’t do you any favors either. It looks CHEAP.”
Simon cut in, “Mom, enough.”
The room seemed to shrink around those two words.
Clara blinked at him.
“I’m helping your wife.”
“No. You’re insulting my wife.”
Her cheeks colored.
“I only want what’s best for you, Simmy.”
“This one doesn’t do you any favors either. It looks CHEAP.”
Then she looked directly at me.
“My son deserves a more attractive woman.”
I looked at Simon, but suddenly I did not want to hear anyone defend me.
I did not want to become the woman standing in the middle of someone else’s anniversary party while everybody debated whether my body was acceptable.
“My son deserves a more attractive woman.”
“I need the restroom.”
Simon reached for my arm.
“Jen…”
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t, but I wanted five quiet minutes more than I wanted another conversation.
Inside the restroom, I locked myself into a stall and sat on the closed toilet.
I was angry.
I wanted five quiet minutes more than I wanted another conversation.
At Clara.
At myself for still being affected by her.
At Simon, a little, because years of “ignore her” had apparently taught his mother she could say anything and still have a seat at our table afterward.
After a minute, I heard the restroom door open.
Two women were talking near the sinks.
Years of “ignore her” had apparently taught his mother she could say anything and still have a seat at our table.
“Did yours fit?”
“Eventually.”
“What does that mean?”
“Clara told the boutique to alter the sleeves.”
I stopped moving.
The other woman laughed uneasily.
“Mine too. She said my arms photographed badly.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish.”
Their voices faded when they left.
“Clara told the boutique to alter the sleeves.”
I stared at the stall door.
My dress wasn’t the only one.
Clara had not bought me an unfortunate gift.
She had been arranging women.
Then Clara screamed from somewhere beyond the restroom.
“Those are mine!”
I rushed into the hallway.
Clara screamed from somewhere beyond the restroom.
The private dining room had erupted into an argument.
A server hurried past me toward the entrance.
Three garment bags were hanging from a rolling rack beside a woman I didn’t recognize.
She wore a sleek black suit and had a boutique name badge clipped near her shoulder.
Three garment bags were hanging from a rolling rack beside a woman I didn’t recognize.
Clara had arranged for several women’s dresses to be delivered directly to the restaurant for final fittings before the photographs.
Simon stood beside her.
Dave was a few feet away, looking deeply uncomfortable.
Clara had one hand gripping the handle of a garment bag.
“Ma’am,” the woman said calmly, “please let go.”
Clara had arranged for several women’s dresses to be delivered directly to the restaurant for final fittings.
“I paid for those dresses!”
“You paid reservation deposits.”
“Don’t play games with me.”
“Clara,” Dave said, “let the woman do her job.”
Clara spun toward him.
“This is our property!”
The woman corrected her.
“I paid for those dresses!”
“No. These garments remain boutique property until the women they were ordered for accept them and the remaining balances are paid. You also disputed the remaining charges after insisting we bring the dresses here tonight.”
Dave turned toward Clara.
“You did what?”
Clara’s expression flickered.
“There were problems with the orders.”
“You also disputed the remaining charges after insisting we bring the dresses here tonight.”
“Problems you requested,” the woman said. “We have every alteration and size change under your authorization.”
Clara tensed up.
She looked toward the restaurant manager.
“Are you seriously going to let her walk out of here carrying thousands of dollars’ worth of my clothing?”
“We have every alteration and size change under your authorization.”
The manager kept both hands folded in front of him.
“Ma’am, she has documentation showing the garments belong to the boutique.”
Clara tightened her grip on the garment bag.
“Nobody is taking these anywhere.”
The coordinator reached for it.
“Ma’am, I need you to release the garment.”
“I said no.”
“Nobody is taking these anywhere.”
The restaurant manager stepped closer.
“Ma’am, if you refuse to return the boutique’s property, I’ll have to call the police.”
Clara stared at him.
“Go ahead.”
He did.
Twenty minutes later, two police officers entered the private dining room.
By then several guests had stopped pretending not to watch.
“Ma’am, if you refuse to return the boutique’s property, I’ll have to call the police.”
Clara met the officers before anyone else could.
“She’s trying to remove property I paid for.”
One officer looked at the boutique coordinator.
“Ma’am?”
The woman handed over a folder.
While they reviewed it, Simon came toward me.
“Jen.”
“What is happening?”
He glanced at Clara.
“The manager called them.”
“She’s trying to remove property I paid for.”
“Because of the dresses?”
“Because Mom wouldn’t let them leave with the dresses. But there’s more.”
Before he could explain, one of the officers looked around the room.
“Is Jennifer here?”
Every eye seemed to turn toward me.
I stepped forward.
“That’s me.”
“Mom wouldn’t let them leave with the dresses. But there’s more.”
The officer gave me a reassuring nod.
“You’re not in any trouble.”
Clara opened her mouth.
He lifted one hand.
“Ma’am, please.”
Then he looked back at me.
“We were called because of a dispute involving formalwear from this event. The vendor has provided documentation showing the disputed garments belong to the boutique.”
“You’re not in any trouble.”
I looked at Clara.
“You’re fighting over dresses that aren’t even yours?”
“They were paid for!”
The officer said, “Deposits were paid. That is not the same as ownership.”
Clara’s face turned crimson.
The boutique coordinator quietly added, “Some of the garments were never accepted by the women they were ordered for.”
“You’re fighting over dresses that aren’t even yours?”
I thought of the women in the restroom.
Then Simon touched my elbow.
“Jen, come with me.”
He led me away from the dining room toward the coatroom, where the coordinator followed us carrying a tablet.
“Jen, come with me.”
Clara started after us.
Dave caught her arm.
“Let them go.”
The coordinator opened an order record.
My name sat at the top.
Jennifer.
Below it was my correct current dress size.
Then, underneath, a later modification.
Four sizes smaller.
Authorized by Clara.
Below it was my correct current dress size.
And beside it, one typed instruction:
DO NOT SUBSTITUTE LARGER.
I read it twice.
Simon said quietly, “I called the boutique two days ago because I wanted to exchange the dress.”
I looked at him.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
The coordinator scrolled farther.
“There is something else you should probably see.”
“I called the boutique two days ago because I wanted to exchange the dress.”
She opened another attachment Clara had sent with the dress orders.
“Your mother-in-law wanted every outfit coordinated with where each woman would stand in the family portrait.”
I looked at Simon.
Then back at the screen.
It wasn’t another clothing order.
It was a positioning diagram.
“Your mother-in-law wanted every outfit coordinated with where each woman would stand in the family portrait.”
At the top were three words.
FORMAL FAMILY PORTRAIT
Names had been arranged in rows.
Beside several of the women were handwritten notes.
Jacket closed.
Keep seated.
Turn left.
Sleeves down.
Then I found mine.
JENNIFER – BACK EDGE. SIMON FRONT.
I stared at the screen.
Beside several of the women were handwritten notes.
Clara had not merely wanted me thinner.
She had planned what to do if I wasn’t.
Behind us, her voice cut through the hallway.
“What exactly are you showing her?”
Simon turned.
Clara stood there with Dave behind her.
“What exactly are you showing her?”
Her face was still red from the police embarrassment, but now anger had replaced it.
Simon looked at the screen once more.
Then at his mother.
“Mom, was Jennifer supposed to lose weight… or disappear?”
Clara said nothing.
And for the first time that entire night, neither did I.
“Mom, was Jennifer supposed to lose weight… or disappear?”
Clara finally found her voice.
“I was trying to make the picture look nice.”
Simon stepped beside me.
“Then hear me clearly, Mom. From now on, you don’t comment on Jen’s body. You don’t choose clothes to change her, and you don’t decide where she belongs in a photograph. If you can’t respect that, we won’t be coming to these parties.”
“I was trying to make the picture look nice.”
Clara stared at him.
Simon didn’t look away.
Dave looked at his wife.
“Clara, it’s our 40th anniversary.” He shook his head. “I think I’ve earned one photograph of my family instead of your arrangement of them.”
The photographer approached cautiously.
“How would you like everyone positioned?”
“I think I’ve earned one photograph of my family instead of your arrangement of them.”
Clara took a breath to answer.
Dave cut in, “Ask them.”
So he did.
People moved wherever they wanted.
An aunt stayed seated because her knees hurt. One cousin removed the wrap Clara had insisted she wear. I stood beside Simon, exactly where I wanted to be.
People moved wherever they wanted.
Before the picture, I whispered, “Do I look okay?”
Simon looked at me.
“Are you comfortable, Jen?”
I glanced down at the dress I’d chosen.
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re good.”
Cl!ck.
Later, the boutique coordinator held up Clara’s blue dress.
“Would you like this reordered in your correct size?”
“Are you comfortable, Jen?”
I looked at it once.
“No, thank you.”
I handed it back myself.
Near the end of the evening, one of the grandchildren showed Clara a candid photo taken during the chaos.
Dave’s tie was crooked. Someone was laughing with their mouth open. I was holding a forkful of cake.
I handed it back myself.
Clara started, “Delete…”
Then stopped.
She looked again.
“…send me that one.”
Across the room, I took another bite of cake.
Clara noticed.
For once, she kept her opinion to herself.
“…send me that one.”
