I laughed, unexpectedly. The words belonged to a dance lesson, but they reached somewhere deeper.
I took classes for six weeks. I stepped on shoes, forgot turns, and apologized less once I realized everyone was learning. No one in that room knew the price of my former house or how my husband had looked beneath his chandeliers.
At the final social evening, I wore crimson silk.
I almost changed before leaving. Then I stood before the mirror and saw a woman who liked the color. That was reason enough.
My friend met me at the arts center. Paper lanterns hung above a worn wooden floor. The music came from speakers with a faint crackle, and the refreshments were tea and biscuits arranged by volunteers.
During a break, I opened my evening bag for a tissue and found the old place card from the ballroom. I had kept it because Julian’s solicitor’s number was on the back. Across the front, in my handwriting, was a smaller note I had forgotten.
One thing that is mine.
I remembered writing it that afternoon before the party, when I could not decide whether wearing the dress was brave or desperate. I had meant the dress. I had thought one possession might hold me together.
Now I understood that the note had been a request from the woman I was then to the woman I might become. I had answered it with a home, a voice, and an evening I did not need anyone to envy.
I folded the card and put it away. A fellow student offered his hand for the next dance and waited for my answer.
“Yes,” I said.
The music began. Nobody across the room needed to suffer for me to enjoy it. I moved onto the floor because I wanted to be there, and when I smiled, the smile was mine.
