My mother, Melissa, and two of Melissa’s friends were already at the bridal boutique when I arrived. They were drinking champagne.
Nobody offered me a glass.
Melissa came out in her dress, and I’ll admit, she looked stunning.
Everyone cried. Everyone took photos.
My mother kept saying, “My beautiful girl. My perfect beautiful girl.”
Then Melissa looked at me.
“What do you think, Amanda?”
I smiled. “You look gorgeous.”
She tilted her head. “You could try, you know, makeup, a good haircut, maybe some Botox. You’d be surprised what a little effort could do.”
The room went silent.
Then my mother laughed.
“Melissa, stop,” she said, but she was smiling. “Amanda knows we’re joking.”
I set my purse down on the chair, walked out of the boutique, got in my car, and drove back to Atlanta.
Nobody called to apologize.
Two months before the wedding, I got a promotion.
