Then he turned back to me.
“We were called regarding a dispute involving several garments from tonight’s event. The vendor has provided documentation showing that the disputed clothing still belongs to the boutique.”
I looked at Clara.
“You’re fighting over dresses that aren’t even yours?”
“They were paid for!”
The officer corrected her.
“Deposits were paid. That does not establish ownership.”
Clara’s face went bright red.
The boutique coordinator added,
“Several garments were also never accepted by the women they were ordered for.”
I immediately thought about the conversation I had overheard in the restroom.
Then Simon touched my elbow.
“Jen, come with me.”
He led me toward the coatroom.
The boutique coordinator followed us carrying a tablet.
Clara started after us.
Dave stopped her.
“Let them go.”
The coordinator opened an order record.
My name appeared at the top.
Jennifer.
Below it was my actual current dress size.
Then underneath was a later modification.
Four sizes smaller.
Authorized by Clara.
My stomach tightened.
Then I saw the typed instruction beside it.
DO NOT SUBSTITUTE LARGER.
I read it twice.
Simon spoke quietly.
“I called the boutique two days ago because I wanted to exchange your dress.”
I turned toward him.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
The coordinator scrolled farther down.
“There’s something else you should probably see.”
She opened another file Clara had attached to the orders.
“Your mother-in-law wanted every woman’s clothing coordinated according to where she intended them to stand in the family portrait.”
I looked at Simon.
Then back at the screen.
It wasn’t another dress order.
It was a diagram.
At the top were the words:
FORMAL FAMILY PORTRAIT.
Every family member’s name had been arranged into rows.
Beside several women’s names were handwritten notes.
JACKET CLOSED.
KEEP SEATED.
TURN LEFT.
SLEEVES DOWN.
Then I found mine.
JENNIFER — BACK EDGE. SIMON FRONT.
I stared at the screen.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Clara hadn’t simply wanted me to lose weight.
She had prepared a backup plan in case I didn’t.
Hide me at the edge.
Put Simon in front.
Make me less visible.
Behind us, Clara’s voice cut through the hallway.
“What exactly are you showing her?”
Simon turned.
Clara stood there with Dave behind her.
Her face was still flushed from the argument with the police.
But now she looked angry.
Simon glanced once more at the screen.
Then at his mother.
“Mom…”
His voice was quiet.
“Did you want Jennifer to lose weight?”
He paused.
“Or did you just want her to disappear?”
Clara said nothing.
For the first time that entire evening, neither did I.
Finally, she crossed her arms.
“I was trying to make the photograph look nice.”
Simon stepped closer to me.
“Then listen carefully.”
Clara stared at him.
“From now on, you do not comment on Jen’s body.”
He continued.
“You do not buy clothes designed to change the way she looks.”
“You do not decide where she belongs in photographs.”
“And if you cannot respect those boundaries, we will stop coming to events like this.”
Clara looked stunned.
Simon didn’t look away.
Then Dave spoke.
“Clara, this is our fortieth anniversary.”
He shook his head.
“I think I’ve earned one photograph of my actual family instead of your carefully arranged version of them.”
At that moment, the photographer approached cautiously.
“How would you like everyone positioned?”
Clara inhaled, clearly preparing to answer.
Dave interrupted her.
“Ask them.”
So the photographer did.
People stood wherever they wanted.
One aunt stayed seated because her knees were hurting.
A cousin removed the wrap Clara had insisted she wear.
Another relative loosened his tie.
And I stood directly beside Simon.
Exactly where I wanted to be.
Right before the picture was taken, I leaned toward him.
“Do I look okay?”
Simon looked at me.
“Are you comfortable?”
I glanced down at the dress I had chosen myself.
“Yes.”
“Then you look perfect.”
Click.
Later that evening, the boutique coordinator held up Clara’s original blue dress.
“Would you like us to reorder this in your correct size?”
I looked at it once.
Then shook my head.
“No, thank you.”
And I handed it back myself.
Toward the end of the evening, one of the grandchildren showed Clara a candid photograph taken during all the chaos.
Dave’s tie was crooked.
Someone in the background was laughing with their mouth wide open.
Another relative wasn’t looking at the camera.
And I was holding a forkful of cake.
Nothing about it was perfectly arranged.
Clara stared at the screen.
“Delete—”
Then she stopped.
She looked at the picture again.
For several seconds, nobody said anything.
Finally she murmured,
“…Send me that one.”
Across the room, I took another bite of cake.
Clara noticed.
For once, she kept her opinion to herself.
