"She said, 'Stop being dramatic, Tricia. It's only a dress.'"
The clock on the stove ticked. I couldn't look at her. I looked at the lace.
"I heard it come out of my mouth today," my mother said. "I heard myself say it to you, in her voice, her exact voice. And I couldn't take it back. I didn't even want to, right then. That's the worst part. I'm going to tell you the truth, Marlo, because you've earned it, and because I don't know when I'll have the nerve again. When Hadley came downstairs with those shears and your dress, I didn't know what she was going to do. I thought she was going to — I don't know what I thought. And then she cut it, the first time, and I should have gotten up. I know I should have. And I didn't. And I'm going to tell you why, and you're going to hate me, and you should."
"Tell me."
"For about four cuts," my mother said, "I thought good."
She said it to the dress. Her hands were flat on the lace.
"I thought good. I thought, now she'll have to wear mine. Now somebody in this family will walk in it. Now it'll be worth something, what I gave up, what I — I thought, she said she's not me, and she's right, she's not, she's going to Vermont and she's never coming back, and she's glad, she's so glad not to be me. And I sat there and I thought good. And after the fourth one I didn't think that anymore. After the fourth one I thought, Tricia, get up. Get up off this couch. And I couldn't. I don't know why I couldn't. I sat there like somebody had poured cement in me. I watched my baby cut up my other baby's dress, and I couldn't make my legs work, and then you came in the door."
She stopped. I could hear her breathing. It was the only time in my life I'd heard my mother breathe like that, like somebody who's been running.
"You made me the reason," I said.
It came out before I knew it was going to. She flinched.