“It’s all right.”
I paid the bill.
Then I carried the dress home.
That evening, my friend Patricia invited me to a small dinner celebrating her retirement.
I’d known Patricia for thirty years.
She’d helped me through my husband’s death and watched Michael grow from a shy child into a successful businessman.
She knew about the wedding.
But she’d never asked me to explain why I’d refused to keep paying.
When I arrived at her house, she opened the door and smiled.
“Helen! You look wonderful.”
I was wearing the pale blue dress.
The faint stain was still there, almost invisible beneath the evening light.
Patricia stepped aside.
“Come in. Everyone’s in the dining room.”
I followed her inside.
There were eight guests.
A simple table.
Fresh flowers.
And a small homemade cake waiting on the kitchen counter.
After dinner, Patricia asked me to help serve dessert.
I picked up the cake knife.
She handed me a plate.
“Big slice or little slice?”
I smiled.
“Big.”
She laughed.
“That’s my girl.”
I cut the first piece.
Then the second.
And when Patricia reached for another plate, I handed her the knife.
