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He looked up.
His eyes were exhausted.
At eighteen, he had always looked so much like his twin sister that some mornings after waking, seeing his face could knock the air from my lungs.
“What are you doing with that?”
He looked down at the fabric.
Then unfolded it.
“I’m wearing it to graduation.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The dress.”
He smoothed the skirt.
“I’m wearing it.”
I recognized every inch.
Of course I did.
I had helped buy it.
Mary had chosen it herself.
“NO.”
Ethan looked at me.
“Mom.”
“No.”
I pulled out the chair across from him.
“Absolutely not.”
His expression barely moved.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I want you to say it.”
I lowered my voice.
“Because people are cruel.”
He said nothing.
“They’ll laugh at you.”
“I know.”
“They’ll take pictures.”
“I know.”
“They’ll post videos online.”
“I know.”
“Ethan, this could follow you everywhere.”
He met my eyes.
“I know.”
I leaned across the table.
“They’ll tear you apart.”
His face softened.
“I know, Mom.”
Then:
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
He looked down at the red dress.
“I have to do this.”
WE HAD ALREADY LOST TOO MUCH
Only a few months earlier, our family had looked completely different.
Ethan and Mary had competed since childhood.
Who finished breakfast first.
Who got the better grade.
Who reached the car first.
Who got the bigger slice of cake.