After Spending Six Months Hand-Sewing My Daughter’s Wedding Dress, I Walked Into The Bridal Suite Just In Time To Hear Her Laugh, “If She Asks, Tell Her It Doesn’t Fit. It Looks Like Something From A BARGAIN RACK.”

Mia commanded a team of professionals like a general positioning troops, a makeup artist with a kit that
cost more than my monthly rent, a hair stylist whose scissors moved with surgical precision, and a photographer
whose camera clicked constantly, capturing every manufactured moment of candid preparation. Hi sat in the center
of it all like a porcelain doll, beautiful and still, while strangers painted and pried and fussed over her. My daughter had always been lovely, but today she looked like someone else entirely.

Someone polished to a shine
that reflected back only what others wanted to see. “Mom.” Hal’s voice carried that particular tone that meant
she needed something, but was already preparing to be disappointed by what I could offer. “You’re here.

Good. We’re
almost ready for the dress.” I lifted the garment bag with the reverence reserved for sacred things. 6 months of evenings
after grading papers.

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