“Clara, I gave birth three months ago.”
“And?”
I stared at the phone.
“And I am not going to lose four dress sizes in two weeks.”
“Well, perhaps this will finally motivate you.”
I didn’t answer.
She kept going.
“My son has always taken care of himself. The least you could do is make an effort too.”
“An effort?”
“Jennifer, don’t turn this into drama. Eat less. Walk more. You’ve had months.”
“Months?”
“When was the last time you actually looked at yourself?”
I hung up.
Simon came home about an hour later.
I was sitting on the couch feeding our daughter when he noticed the box.
“Is that Mom’s famous anniversary dress?”
I looked at him.
“Your mother ordered it four sizes too small.”
He froze halfway through taking off his jacket.
“By accident?”
“No.”
His face changed immediately.
So I told him everything.
The laughter.
The comment about losing weight.
The suggestion that I needed to make myself more attractive for him.
Simon sat beside me and rubbed his face.
“Jen…”
“Don’t.”
He looked up.
“Please don’t tell me she’s just being your mother.”
His hand dropped.
Because for years, that had always been the excuse.
Clara criticized my cooking?
“That’s just Mom.”
Clara questioned the way I decorated our house?
“Ignore her.”
Clara made some cutting remark at dinner?
“She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Simon always supported me.
Privately.
And suddenly, that distinction mattered more than it ever had before.
“I’m not wearing the dress,” I said.
“Of course you’re not.”
“I’ll buy another one.”
“We’ll buy another one,” he corrected.
I looked down at our sleeping daughter.
Simon followed my gaze.
Then he said quietly,
“I should’ve stopped this years ago.”
I didn’t answer.
Two days later, Simon came shopping with me.
I found a dress made from soft fabric with a waistline that actually sat where my waist existed now.
I could sit comfortably.
I could breathe.
I could lift my arms without worrying that the seams were going to declare war on me.
When I stepped out of the fitting room, Simon smiled.
“That one.”
“You haven’t even seen the others.”
“Don’t care.”
I turned toward the mirror.
Simon appeared behind me in the reflection.
“You comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re done.”
I bought it.
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.
It had a private dining room bigger than the apartment Simon and I first shared.
Clara loved events like that.
And Clara especially loved rules.
Women were supposed to wear blue or black.
Men had to wear tuxedos.
No patterned ties.
No casual jackets.
Professional photos at exactly 7:30.
Family portrait before dessert.
She had emailed everyone a three-page schedule.
When Simon and I arrived, my father-in-law, Dave, spotted us first.
“There they are!”
He crossed the room and hugged Simon before turning to me.
“You look lovely, Jennifer.”
“Thank you.”
Then Clara saw me.
Her eyes immediately dropped to my dress.
“That is NOT what I ordered.”
“No,” I said calmly.
She looked me up and down.
“I can see that.”
Simon stepped closer beside me.
I kept my voice polite.
“The other dress didn’t fit.”
“It would have if you had listened to me.”
Dave looked between us.
“Clara…”
“What? I’m not going to lie to her.”
Then she pinched the fabric near her own waist.
“This dress doesn’t flatter you either. It looks cheap.”
Simon’s voice cut across the room.
“Mom. Enough.”
Everything seemed to go quiet.
Clara stared at him.
“I’m trying to help your wife.”
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