Instead she pinched the fabric of Emma’s yellow sundress between two fingers and examined the stitching.

“Is this a cotton blend?” my mother asked.

“Olivia’s wearing a white French lace shift today.

Her father brought it home from Chicago.

It makes such a difference in family pictures.”

Emma pulled back half an inch, tucking her face against my hip.

“It washes easily,” I said.

“It looks plain,” my mother said, stepping back to let us into the tiled foyer.