"There's one more place. The pretty one on Maple."
"Mom."
"Just one more, sweetheart."
The saleswoman gave her a slow once-over, mouth tightening at the corners.
The old nickname almost slipped out, but I caught it before it could wound her. That word belonged to Mason. Only Mason.
The boutique on Maple had a gown in the window I had already pictured on her. Ivory, soft, romantic. Hazel stood in front of the glass for a long moment, and then, in a voice I had not heard in a year, she asked, "Could I try the one in the window?"
The saleswoman gave her a slow once-over, mouth tightening at the corners.
"That's not going to work for you, honey. You're too big."
That was all. No softening. No apology.
Hazel didn't cry. She did not argue. She turned around, walked through the door, and got into the passenger seat of my car. I followed her, my hands shaking on the keys.
She stared straight ahead the whole way home.
"Hazel, I am so sorry. I am going to go back in there and—"
"Please drive."
"Sweetheart—"
"Please. Just drive."
She stared straight ahead the whole way home. I kept glancing at her, waiting for the break, the tears, anything. Nothing came. That scared me more than sobbing would have.
She walked into the house, climbed the stairs, and closed her bedroom door. I heard the lock click.
I pressed my forehead against the door and cried as quietly as I could.
I went up after her. I sat on the carpet outside her room, my back against the wood.
"Hazel. Open the door. Please."
