Dress shopping had always been ours.
She’d pointed to a giant ball gown.
“That one.”
“I’d look like a cupcake, Mom.”
“A very expensive cupcake.”
From then on, we joked that when my turn came, she would help me find something that didn’t resemble dessert.
“I’d look like a cupcake, Mom.”
After her diagnosis, the joke stopped feeling quite so casual.
There were milestones I’d always assumed Mom would be there for.
Wedding dress.
Wedding.
Maybe babies someday.
Christmases I hadn’t thought about yet.
After her diagnosis, the joke stopped feeling quite so casual.
Suddenly I couldn’t assume anything.
So when I went dress shopping, I took only her.
It wasn’t meant as an insult.
Isabella didn’t see it that way.
***
Nathan’s mother had stared at me when she found out.
When I went dress shopping, I took only her.
“So I’m good enough to help pay for flowers, but not important enough to see you choose the dress?”
“I’m sorry. Mom and I have talked about doing this since I was a teenager.”
“I see.”
“It’s not about excluding you.”
“No. You’ve made it very clear whose family matters.”
“It’s not about excluding you.”
I explained about Mom.
Isabella knew about the cancer.
