Patricia folded her arms.

You’d stop making such a fuss and remember you have responsibilities here.

My stomach went cold.

Before I could respond, Mark appeared behind me.

What’s going on?

I turned.

Your mother cut up my gown.

He looked past me at the fabric, the scissors, then his mother.

And he smiled.

Not a big smile. Just a slight curl at the corner of his mouth.

That was worse.

Mom, he said, almost amused.

Patricia shrugged.

She was going to leave me with 12 people.

I wasn’t leaving you with anyone. You invited them.

Mark looked at me.

Clare, don’t start.

I raised the ruined sleeve.

Don’t start?

He leaned against the doorframe.

You’re acting like somebody died.

I’m supposed to wear this tomorrow.

So wear something else.

To accept a national award.

He gave me the same tired look his mother had.

Then he said it.

“You’re a wife, not a celebrity. Act like one.”

I can still hear his exact tone. Casual. Almost bored.

That was what made it cruel. Not anger or an argument, just complete certainty that something important to me was ridiculous.

Melissa appeared at the end of the hallway. Mark’s daughter was 31, and I’d helped raise her since she was nine.

She looked from me to the dress.

Oh my god, Grandma.

Patricia said, “Don’t be dramatic.”

Melissa crouched and touched one of the pieces before looking at me.

Can’t they just mail you the award or something?

That almost impressed me.

22 years of helping her with everything from multiplication tables to wedding invitations, and apparently she thought national award ceremonies operated like replacement credit cards.

I stood there gripping the fabric.

Nobody apologized.

Nobody even seemed especially surprised.