PART 1 — THE SEVENTY-FIVE-DOLLAR BLUE DRESS

The zipper of the blue polyester dress caught on a loose thread near the waist.

My mother stood perfectly still in the center of my small Chicago apartment, holding her breath so I could work the metal slide free without tearing the synthetic fabric.

“I think it just needs a little tug, Clara,” she murmured, smoothing the stiff material over her hips.

She had paid seventy-five dollars for it on the clearance rack at Carson Pirie Scott.

It was a bright, clean cobalt blue, but the polyester had that slight synthetic sheen that did not quite mimic silk, even in the soft morning light.

“There,” I said, finally backing away to look at her.

I adjusted the comb of my wedding veil where it sat on the small vanity desk.

The lace was light, but the humidity rising from the pavement outside already made the fabric cling to the back of my neck.

My mother turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror, her fingers smoothing her skirt over and over.

Her hands, worn rough from decades of helping my father in his Blue Island shop, looked incredibly pale against the blue fabric.

“Do you think the color is too loud for Lake Forest?” she asked, her voice dropping to a soft, reassuring murmur.

“I wanted to look nice for Ethan’s family.”

“You look beautiful, Mom,” I said.

“I just do not want them thinking we did not try,” she said, looking down at her sensible black low heels.

I reached up to adjust my glasses, catching my reflection in the glass of a framed print on the wall.

The white silk of my own gown felt heavy, a physical weight that seemed to anchor me to the hardwood floor.

We had to leave in twenty minutes to make the drive up to the Sterling estate.

My father was already downstairs waiting in their dented sedan, warming up the engine so the air conditioning would have a chance to kick in.