By the time we arrived at the Whitmore Foundation Gala, I had almost convinced myself I could survive the evening.
Almost.
The ballroom of the Hawthorne Hotel glittered beneath three chandeliers. White roses filled silver vases along the walls. Waiters moved through the crowd carrying champagne.
My black maternity dress absorbed the light instead of reflecting it.
I felt like a shadow beside Diane.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“Oh, Anna,” she said loudly when her sister approached us. “You remember Aunt Caroline.”
Caroline kissed my cheek.
“You look wonderful. Pregnancy agrees with you.”
Before I could thank her, Diane laughed.
“Wonderful? She's gained nearly thirty pounds.”
“Twenty-two,” I said.
Diane waved one hand.
“At this stage, who's counting?”
I felt Michael tense beside me.
“Mom.”
“What? She's pregnant, not fragile.”
I smiled because people were watching.
That became the pattern.
Every time someone complimented me, Diane corrected them.
When a family friend told me I was glowing, Diane said it was probably because I was overheating.
When someone asked about my due date, Diane mentioned how enormous I already looked.
When I declined champagne, she patted my shoulder and said, “At least pregnancy has finally given her a reason not to drink.”
I hadn't had alcohol since before trying to conceive.
The comment still landed.
By dinner, my jaw hurt from keeping it clenched.
Then Diane brought up the dress.
We were seated at the main family table when her cousin asked whether I had changed my outfit plans.
Diane sighed theatrically.
“Poor Anna had a little wardrobe disaster.”
I stared at her.
“A disaster?”
“Yes. Her special dress was ruined.”
“How?”
Diane looked directly at me.
“That remains a mystery.”
Something in me snapped.
Maybe it was the smile.
Maybe it was the way she said mystery.
Or maybe it was six months of swallowing comments because I wanted peace in my marriage.
“You cut it.”
The conversation around us stopped.
Michael whispered, “Anna.”
But I couldn't stop anymore.
I looked at Diane.
“You came into the room. The dress was fine before you did. After you left, it was cut apart.”
Diane's face went pale.
Then red.
“How dare you.”
“Tell me I'm wrong.”
“You're accusing me because you damaged your own dress?”
“I didn't damage it.”
“Maybe you've become clumsy.”
