A few years ago, I found out I couldn’t have kids. It was brutal—made even worse by the fact that my fiancé cheated on me with my best friend right around the same time. Since then, I’ve focused on healing, rebuilding, and yes, treating myself sometimes. I work hard, live alone, and over the years I’ve slowly collected a few designer dresses that make me feel confident and beautiful again.
My sister-in-law, Dana, never approved. At every family dinner she’d make comments like, “Get your priorities straight—dresses won’t keep you warm when you’re old and alone,” or, “If I didn’t care about starting a family, I’d buy stupid stuff too.” I always smiled, but it cut deeper than I ever admitted.
Last week, she texted me out of nowhere. She had a college reunion coming up and wanted to borrow one of my fancy dresses to look impressive. I said no at first. She immediately called me selfish. So I smiled and replied, “Sure. I’ll bring one by tomorrow.”
She looked smug when she opened the door, like she’d finally put me back in my place.
But the dress I brought wasn’t one I loved.
It was the very first designer dress I ever bought—the one from the darkest year of my life. The one that no longer fit. I handed it to her and said, sweetly, “You’re right. Dresses don’t really matter. This one didn’t matter to me anymore.”
She tried it on. It didn’t zip. Not even close.
Her smile vanished.
I shrugged and said, “I guess bodies change. Priorities too.” Then I wished her luck at the reunion and walked out.
That night, I went home, poured a glass of wine, and hung my favorite dress back in the closet—exactly where it belonged.
