My Daughter’s Eyes Filled With Tears. My Husband Looked At The Family, Then At Our Little Girl, And Something In His Face Changed. Without A Word, He Stepped Aside, Made One Quick Phone Call, Stood Up In Front Of Everyone, And Said One Sentence That Wiped The Smiles Off Every Face In That Room.
The crystal chandeliers in my sister Victoria’s dining room caught the afternoon light as I helped my daughter Emma adjust her dress. It was a simple cotton piece from Target, clean and pressed. But next to the designer outfits swirling around us, it might as well have been burlap.
The other children wore clothes with labels I recognized from magazine spreads, silk ribbons, handstitched details, shoes that cost more than our car payment. “Mommy, do I look okay?” Emma whispered, tugging at her collar. Her voice was small, uncertain in a way it never was at home.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” I said, smoothing her hair. And she did. Her natural beauty didn’t need expensive fabric to shine through.
My husband Marcus stood quietly by the entrance, his hands in the pockets of his khaki slacks. He wore a simple button-down shirt, no tie. In a room full of Armani and Versace, we were clearly the budget option.
Victoria swept past us in a champagne-colored silk dress that probably cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she air-kissed arriving guests. “Darling,” she called to someone behind us.
“So glad you could make it to our little gathering.”
Little gathering? There were at least sixty people here for her anniversary party. The catering staff alone outnumbered our entire extended family.
My mother approached, her expression carefully neutral. She’d mastered that look over the years, the one that said she was trying very hard not to compare her daughters. “Sarah, you made it,” Mom said.
Not happy we came, just acknowledging that we had. “Of course. Twenty-five years is a big milestone for Victoria and James.”
“Yes.
Well.” Mom glanced at Emma. “The child looks nice.”
Nice. The word hung in the air like a participation trophy.
Emma’s younger brother, six-year-old Tyler, was holding Marcus’s hand, staring wide-eyed at the elaborate dessert table, three tiers of delicacies he’d probably never seen before, arranged like edible art. “Can I have a cookie?” Tyler asked. Before I could answer, Victoria materialized beside us.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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