My aunt handed me a rough, mustard-yellow dress made of coarse stiff polyester and told me I was wearing it to the Senior Heritage Gala.
The dressing room backstage was a controlled chaos of nervous energy, last-minute hair adjustments, and hushed conversations. Girls preened in front of mirrors, their silk gowns rustling. I found a quiet corner near a rack of costumes, away from the chatter, and sat on a wooden bench. The mustard dress felt even more stifling here, in the hot, crowded space.
Tiffany walked in, her emerald gown shimmering under the harsh fluorescent lights. Her usual confidence seemed to waver. She glanced at me, then quickly looked away, picking nervously at a stray bead on her bodice.
She walked towards a mirror, pretending to adjust her hair. Her reflection caught my eye, and for a moment, her gaze held mine, a flicker of something unreadable there.
“It’s really beautiful,” I said, gesturing to her gown, trying to break the tension. My voice sounded flat even to my own ears.
Tiffany’s shoulders slumped. She turned away from the mirror and walked slowly towards me, her head bowed. The usual haughty set of her jaw was gone, replaced by a strained softness.
She sat beside me, leaving a small gap between us on the bench. Her hands, usually so perfectly manicured, wrung together.
“Chloe,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant murmur of the crowd. “I… I have to tell you something.”
My heart pounded. This wasn’t like Tiffany.
“Months ago,” she confessed, her eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor, “I overheard my mother talking on the phone. To one of her friends, about your mother, Lien.”
She took a shaky breath. “She was saying… she was obsessed with how beautiful your mother’s sewing was. How everyone always complimented Lien’s work, never hers.”
Tiffany paused, a tear silently tracing a path down her cheek, leaving a faint streak of smudged mascara.
“She specifically mentioned an old silk dress,” Tiffany continued, her voice trembling. “One your mother made. Before… before she got really sick.”
My blood ran cold. The hidden dress.
“My mother said she couldn’t stand the thought of you wearing it,” Tiffany choked out, finally looking up at me, her eyes red. “She said she’d found a way to make sure it would never see the light of day. That she had to… erase Lien’s artistic legacy from the family.”
She broke down then, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. The guilt was palpable, a heavy wave in the small, hot room.
“She always felt inferior to Aunt Lien,” Tiffany sobbed. “Always. That’s why she wanted to hide it. That’s why she made you wear… that.” She gestured vaguely at my mustard dress. “She wanted to be the only one people talked about tonight.”
The confession hung in the air, thick with the weight of years of unspoken resentment. It wasn’t just about money, or debt. It was about a deeper, festering envy that had driven my aunt to this calculated act of emotional cruelty.
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