Bursting at the Seams

When I walk out, she’s throwing away a tissue; I’m assuming she’s been blotting her eyes. Once I fill the glasses and set the bottle to the side, Wren taps her glass to mine before downing hers. I watch her carefully, but make sure not to pass any judgment. If anything, I feel a twinge of genuine concern for her. Something has clearly happened to make her upset. Even though I know it’s nowhere near my business to pry into her personal matters, I can’t help but feel a burning desire to know what’s going on.

I pour her another without a word, take a sip of my own before and gesture for her to go put the dress on. Wren sets her purse down on the couch, and then heads into the dressing room with her champagne in hand. It’s only a few minutes before she emerges in the plum-colored gown. Oh, how absolutely stunning she looks in such a gown. And it’ll only look better once the adjustments are made.

I take my time pinning the dress. After a little while, I find the bravery to make a little small talk. “Feels a bit silly to ask how your day is going, but I’m afraid small talk has never been my strong suit if it’s not the usual little banter,” I admit to her rather honestly, though I keep my voice low and sincere.

“You’re fine,” she murmurs, letting out a breathy, dry laugh. It’s an attempt to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. “It was a great day, but you know… parents have to ruin everything while acting as though they are doing you a favor.”

I smile, and it’s genuine. “I know what you mean,” I remark, continuing to pin the dress down her side. I’m not bothering to try and let my touch linger. It seems wrong to do, considering she’s so upset.

“I’m not sure you do,” she sighs.

My head tilts side to side. “Fair point, but only because I don’t know what’s happened.”

It’s a light attempt at getting her to explain what’s happened. As I tell myself to let it go and leave it alone, I feel her ribs expand and then slowly deflate. “It’s my mother,” she begins. “She’s very traditional, but only when it works to her favor. All in all, I think it’s just a crutch for her to fall back on when she doesn’t have anything else to criticize us for. Because congratulating someone, or having nothing to nitpick, means you’re settling. And Paula Foster won’t settle for anything but perfect.” There’s a pause long enough for her to take another long gulp of her drink. “When I was a kid, it was perfect grades. A’s that weren’t one-hundreds weren’t good enough. If you did manage to get perfect scores, then it was asking why you weren’t in any sports— or multiple sports if you were in one. In high school, it was all of the above and then selecting a profitable major. I went into marketing just because I thought it would make her proud. Only to find out, she wants my sisters and I to have the qualifications to be anything we want to be, but in all reality, she wants us all to be Stepford housewives.”

“I cannot imagine you as the type,” I reply, adding a little chuckle.

She laughs a little and shakes her head. “The funniest part of it all, is that maybe that could have been in my vision of life once upon a time. However, her drive to get us all into profitable fields actually worked for me. I'm good at my job and I love it.” I peer around her just to raise an eyebrow at the remark. She cracks a soul-shattering smirk then. It’s the kind of look that could spark joy, taunt, or seduce all in one. “I know marketing sounds like a boring job to most. And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing thrilling about PowerPoints or spreadsheets… But there’s a rush to it when you manage to get things done and they are flawless. It helps that I work for a genuinely fantastic company, instead of some money-hungry, horrible-for-the-planet conglomerate.”

“Each to their own,” I assure her. “I’m sure that cutting fabric and sewing seams isn’t what the everyday person would consider to be a grand ole time, either.”

“Fair enough,” she laughs lightly. It’s the sound of gentle rain, or birds in spring… Or some other romantic, dewy-eyed metaphor that I’m not poetic enough to think of. But it reminds me of happy, warm days. Something I haven’t really thought about or romanticized in a long, long time. Wren scoffs and shakes her head. “It’s silly because I’ve already accepted that I’ll never be enough for her. No one will. And yet she takes the opportunity of a dinner with all my sisters, to get onto me about my life path. Ruins the evening, puts me in a spot to leave or cause a bigger scene, and then blames me for my sister being upset… I just hope they one day realize just how awful she is and stop bothering to try and impress her.”