I worked at the shop too.

I existed in the back stockroom, wrestling inventory out of cardboard boxes, steaming miles of tulle, invisible to the showroom floor.

I was nine years old, crouched behind a dense rack of cathedral veils, the day a wealthy customer cooed over Chelsea as she twirled on the velvet fitting pedestal.

The woman asked my mother how she’d gotten so lucky to have such a beautiful daughter.

My mother laughed her bright, musical public laugh.

“Oh, believe me, we work at it.