Today was the day. The culmination of three decades of bleeding hands and shattered knees. I pushed myself upright, swallowing a handful of over-the-counter painkillers that I knew would do nothing against the bone-deep weariness of my body.
I shuffled to my narrow closet and pulled out the only decent garment I owned. It was a decade-old navy blue dress, bought on clearance for a funeral I barely remembered. The fabric was faded at the shoulders, the hem slightly frayed, but it was clean. I set up the ironing board in the center of the kitchen, the metallic screech of its hinges echoing off the cheap walls. I filled the iron with water and watched the steam rise, smelling the comforting, familiar scent of hot cotton and old starch.
As I meticulously pressed the collar, trying to smooth out wrinkles that had been baked into the fabric by time, my mind wandered to Connor. I could only imagine the frantic, panicked calculus running through his head this morning. I knew him too well. He wasn’t just preparing to walk across a stage to receive his medical degree; he was preparing to perform for Grace’s father, Arthur Van Der Camp. Arthur was a man who moved mountains with a signature, a patriarch of old-money Boston who valued pedigree as much as pulse. Connor was terrified that Arthur would pull back the curtain and realize his polished future son-in-law was the product of a woman who scrubbed toilets for a living.
I finished ironing and carried the dress to my cracked bathroom mirror. I slipped it over my head, my arthritic shoulders protesting the movement. I fumbled with the small pearl buttons at the collar, my scarred, thickened fingers struggling to manipulate the tiny plastic discs.
As I managed the last button, my cell phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.
The vibration rattled against the cheap porcelain. I looked down. The screen glowed with a new text message. The sender was Connor.
A cold dread coiled in my gut. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the device, before finally picking it up. I tapped the screen.
The words stared back at me, stark and violent in their efficiency.
“Grace’s parents are hosting a private VIP reception right after the ceremony. They are old-money Boston. Your worn-out clothes and limp will just embarrass me and ruin my chances with them. Please stay home. I’ll come see you next week.”
The phone slipped from my numb, scarred fingers. It clattered against the porcelain sink and bounced onto the worn linoleum floor, the screen cracking in a spiderweb pattern.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I looked up into the cracked mirror, seeing the fractured reflection of a woman who had given everything, only to be deemed too repulsive to stand in the light of her own creation. My faded dress. My weary eyes. The heavy, ugly orthotic shoes I had to wear to keep my spine aligned. Your worn-out clothes and limp will just embarrass me.
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