"Why?"
"Because I'm not putting you in a costume so I can feel better." She slid another hanger along the rail. "And because if you're going to walk me down an aisle, I want it to be you. I just want it to be you in something that fits."
She pulled out a charcoal suit, wool, single-breasted, a little old-fashioned in the lapels. She held it up against me and squinted.
"Go try it on."
In the dressing room, behind a curtain that didn't quite close, I put it on. The trousers were an inch long. The jacket fit through the shoulders as if someone had measured me. I came out and stood in front of the mirror at the end of the aisle, and Margot came and stood behind me, and we both looked.
"Huh," she said.
"Huh," I agreed.
She reached around and checked the inside pockets. "Deep enough for pliers," she said, and I laughed, and so did she, and then she stopped laughing and kept her hand on my sleeve.
"I'm still mad," she said to my reflection.
"I know."
"Not about the money. Well, about the money. But mostly about the not knowing. I keep thinking about all the times I could have asked you something and didn't. And all the times you could have told me something and didn't. And I don't know whose fault that is. I think it's both of ours. I think we were both protecting something, and I'm not sure either of us knows what anymore."
"Your mother," I said.
"Maybe." She turned me around by the shoulders and looked at the lapels and smoothed one with her thumb. "I haven't decided what to do with what's left in the account. Don't ask me yet."
"I won't."