My 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.
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. 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. 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. She answered on the second ring.
"Yes. I think they sent the wrong size."
"No, honey. That's yours."
I sat on the edge of the bed.
"Clara, I can't even get it on."
"I know. The party is two weeks away," she said. "Plenty of time."
"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.
"Clara, I had a baby three months ago."
"And I'm not losing four dress sizes in two weeks."
"Then perhaps you'll finally have some motivation."
"My son has always taken care of himself. The least you could do is make an effort too."
"Don't turn this into drama. Eat less. Walk more. You've had months."
"Jennifer, when was the last time you looked at yourself properly?"
Simon came home an hour later. I was feeding the baby on the couch when he saw the dress box.
"That the famous anniversary dress?"
"Your mother ordered it four sizes too small."
Simon stopped halfway through taking off his jacket. He sat beside me and rubbed one hand over his face.
"Please don't say she's just being your mother," I blurted. For years, that had been his answer. Clara criticized my cooking? She asked whether Simon really liked the way I decorated our house? 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. "I'll buy something else."
"We'll buy something else," Simon corrected. I looked down at our sleeping daughter.
Then he sort of mumbled, "I should've shut this down a long time ago."
Two days later, Simon came shopping with me. I chose a nice dress with soft fabric and a waist that sat where my waist actually existed now. When I stepped out of the fitting room, Simon smiled.
"You haven't seen the others," I said. I turned sideways toward the mirror. Simon appeared behind me in the reflection.
What I didn't know was that Simon made a phone call later that afternoon.
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. 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. My father-in-law crossed the room and hugged Simon, then me.
"You look lovely, Jennifer."
Then Clara turned around. Her eyes went directly to my dress.
"That's NOT what I ordered."
Clara gave me a slow once-over. 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.
Then she pinched the fabric at her own waist.
"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.
"No. You're insulting my wife."
"I only want what's best for you, Simmy."
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.
Simon reached for my arm. 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 wanted five quiet minutes more than I wanted another conversation. 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.
"Clara told the boutique to alter the sleeves."
The other woman laughed uneasily.
"Mine too. She said my arms photographed badly."
Their voices faded when they left. 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. I rushed into the hallway. 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.
Clara had arranged for several women's dresses to be delivered directly to the restaurant for final fittings before the photographs. 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."
"I paid for those dresses!"
"You paid reservation deposits."
"Don't play games with me."
"Clara," Dave said, "let the woman do her job."