The following Saturday, I drove us to the strip mall with my hands clenched around the steering wheel.
Hope sat dangerously in my chest.
After a year of grief, I was daring to feel it again.
I should have known better.
The first three boutiques used gentler words.
“Limited inventory.”
“Sample sizes only.”
“We could special order, but not in time.”
The message was the same in all three.
They thought she was too big for their dresses.
By the fourth store, I could see Hazel folding inward. Her shoulders crept toward her ears exactly the way they had at Mason’s funeral.
I forced brightness into my voice.
“There’s one more place. The pretty one on Maple.”
“Mom.”
“Just one more, sweetheart.”
The old nickname almost slipped out.
I caught it in time.
That word belonged to Mason. Only Mason.
The Boutique on Maple
The boutique on Maple displayed a gown in its front window that I had already imagined on Hazel.
Ivory. Soft. Romantic.
She stood in front of the glass for a long moment.
Then, in a voice I had not heard in nearly a year, she asked:
“Could I try the one in the window?”
The saleswoman looked her up and down slowly.
The corners of her mouth tightened.
“That’s not going to work for you, honey. You’re too big.”
No apology. No softening. Just that.
Hazel did not cry. She did not argue. She simply turned around, walked outside, and climbed into the passenger seat of my car.
My hands shook as I followed her.
“Hazel, I am so sorry. I am going to go back in there and—”
“Please drive.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Please. Just drive.”
The entire ride home, she stared straight ahead. I kept glancing over, waiting for tears. Waiting for anger. Waiting for anything.
Nothing came.
That frightened me more than sobbing ever could.
When we got home, she went upstairs and shut her bedroom door.
The lock clicked.
Behind the Locked Door
I followed her.
Sitting on the carpet outside her room, I leaned against the door.
