locked myself in a stall and sat on the closed toilet.
I was angry.
At Clara.
At myself for still letting her comments hurt me.
And a little at Simon too.
Because years of telling me to ignore his mother had apparently taught her that she could say absolutely anything and still be welcomed into our lives afterward.
Then the restroom door opened.
Two women walked in talking.
“Did yours fit?”
“Eventually.”
“What does that mean?”
“Clara had the boutique alter the sleeves.”
I stopped breathing.
The other woman gave
