My mother ignored me. “It’s just such a shame to hide your figure in something like that. Especially when you’ve worked so hard.”
“I know. But it’s not my wedding. It’ll be fine.” Mom looked unsure. Amy shrugged at me, then handed me her phone and struck a pose. “Take a picture so we can send it to Madison?”
I did, internally girding my loins for the jellyfish of a comment that was about to come my way when I put on the same forgiving dress. Amy retreated to the dressing room and emerged a couple minutes later in her jeans. “Tag, you’re it.”
Whatever they were discussing while I was in the fitting room was said too quietly for me to hear more than a murmur of voices. I pulled off my shirt and pants and put on the dress.
I stepped back to get as full a view as I could in the fitting-room mirror. It actually wasn’t bad. Yes, the color was frightful on me, but the fit was somewhat flattering. Would I choose this dress on my own, even in a different color? No. But it was the first one any bride had picked that didn’t make me feel overly self-conscious. I smiled faintly at my reflection. Yes, I would be the much older spinster sister at my brother’s fabulous destination wedding in a color that didn’t suit me at all. But I would still look pretty good doing it. And even my mother couldn’t find a flaw with that. Actually, scratch that. This was my mother we were talking about.
I took a deep breath and stepped out into the shop.
My mother and Amy both tilted their heads to the same degree at the same time. Amy needs to get out of that house, I thought. Like right now.
“You look great!” Amy said.
My mother smiled gently. “You look lovely, Lily.” I waited for the “but,” and she did not disappoint. “I just wish Madison could have picked something that would look good on both of you.”
Amy’s shoulders sank. I gave my mother a murderous look, which she missed because she was looking at the dress, not my face. “It was good on Amy too, Mom.”
“Everything looks good on Amy, of course,” she said absently. “But it does nothing to show off her waist, and her waist is so small. It makes hers look the same size as yours.”
My teeth clenched involuntarily. “And I’m clearly the size of a hippopotamus, so that’s a problem.”
“Don’t take that tone,” she said. “You’re just a bigger girl than Amy.”
I was two inches taller than her and maybe twenty pounds heavier soaking wet.
I wanted to tell her that she was ridiculously unfair, and it had taken me a good thirty of my thirty-two years on this earth to get past the body image issues that she had instilled in me. I wanted to tell her that I liked how I looked, so whatever she thought was irrelevant. I wanted to tell her that, by her standards, nothing would look good on both me and Amy. And I most definitely wanted to tell her to go to hell.
But you can’t do that with your mom, can you? Somehow, all of those things that you want to say, that maybe you should say, just don’t have the courage to come out of your mouth. Because it’s different when it’s your mom. Whatever she says cuts deeper, scars worse, and makes you feel like maybe it’s actually true, even when you know it’s not.
Instead, I counted to ten and bit my tongue.
Not that she noticed any of my internal struggle. In fact, she was talking to the saleswoman about whether there was any way to belt Amy’s dress to make it more flattering.
Now that? That I could say something about.
“Mom, you can’t change the dress from how Madison wants it.”
She looked at me, her eyebrows raised. “None of the girls have ordered the dresses yet. So she should at least see it with a belt and see how much better it looks.”
Amy’s eyes were wide. She at least understood the magnitude of the faux pas my mother was committing. And even though I really didn’t know her, I felt bad for Madison. Amy was the golden child and had it easier than I did, but Madison clearly hadn’t grown up with a mother who didn’t have boundaries. She had no clue what kind of storm was about to hit her in the form of Hurricane Joan.
I exhaled audibly. “Nope. I’m calling a foul here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t be that mother-in-law.”
Her hands were on her hips. “I’m going to be a wonderful mother-in-law. Madison is lucky to have someone to make sure everything looks its best.”
I glanced back at Amy. This is why you don’t invite her to stuff like this, I thought. “Mom, you have Amy’s wedding to do this kind of thing. Madison gets to call the shots here. You’re not in charge at this one.”
“Of course I’m not in charge, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion—”
“Yes, it does. It means exactly that. Your job is to show up in a neutral-colored dress, tell Jake and Madison that you love them, and then keep your mouth closed.”
Her brows came together murderously and she pointed a finger at me, which, no matter how old I got, made me feel like I was about to face major consequences for whatever infraction I had just committed. “Now you listen—”
“How did you feel when Nana told you what to do?” I asked, cutting her off. Her mouth was open like she was going to say something, but she lowered her finger.
“I’m nothing like Nana,” she said. “That woman was a nightmare.”
“Madison is shy and isn’t going to argue with you. But this is her wedding and if you tell her how the bridesmaids should be dressed, she’ll probably say okay. Then she’s going to resent you. Is that what you want?”
“Why would she resent me?”
I dug desperately for an argument that would sway her and, thankfully, a light bulb went off in my head. “Remember that New York Times article? The one about how paternal grandparents aren’t usually as close with their grandkids because of friction in the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship?”
Her eyes narrowed. She had shared it on Facebook when the article first came out and emailed it to the three of us, telling Jake that he had better marry someone who would love her.
“It was true, wasn’t it? We were always closer with Grandma than with Nana. And it’s already going to be hard when they have kids because Jake and Madison don’t live here and her parents are there. Do you really want to make it even more likely that you don’t get to see their kids as much?”
She looked to Amy. “Do you agree with this?”
Amy’s hand was at her mouth and she was chewing on her cuticles. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Fine,” my mother said, throwing up her hands in defeat. “Don’t ever let anyone say I don’t listen. Amy, stop biting your nails.” Amy dropped her hand guiltily.
“So no belts then?” the saleswoman asked.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m going to go take this off. Amy, can you tell Madison it’s great?”
“Wait,” Amy said. “Let me get a picture of you in it.”
I turned to face her and tried to look less annoyed than I was, then returned to the dressing room to put my work clothes back on. I was starving and, the adrenaline of the confrontation gone, exhausted.
#Obsessed came the text from my sister to both me and Madison, with pictures of the two of us in the dress. Love love love it! I didn’t even have Madison’s phone number, but apparently Amy was in touch with her. And sensitive enough to lie about her reaction to the dress.
I looked at the pictures. Amy was radiant, her arm thrown over her head in a rapturous pose. I looked constipated, my arms at my sides, jaw clenched, a forced, fake smile on my lips that came nowhere near my eyes. Shit.
Are you sure? A reply came in from the number that had to be Madison’s. Lily?
I pulled my shirt over my head, then typed out a reply. It’s great. Honest. I only look annoyed in the pic because I was fighting with our mom. It’s my favorite of the bridesmaid dresses I have so far. I realized that was an unintentional dig at Amy as soon as I said it, but I was too annoyed to care.
Fighting about the dress?
No, I lied firmly at the same time that Amy replied, Yes.