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 night of the Senior Heritage Gala arrived in a blur of last-minute preparations and nervous energy. The Houston Vietnamese Community Center glittered, draped in crimson and gold banners. The air hummed with excited chatter, the scent of jasmine and traditional Vietnamese dishes.
Aunt Coi stood at the entrance to the main lobby, beaming, accepting compliments right and left. She wore a striking crimson *áo dài*, embroidered with golden phoenixes. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her smile radiant for every camera flash.
Next to her, Tiffany shimmered in her expensive designer gown, a delicate silk creation in emerald green. She looked stunning, a little nervous, but mostly basking in her mother’s reflected glory. Aunt Coi’s hand rested possessively on Tiffany’s back, guiding her for the perfect pose.
When I arrived, dressed in the clumsy, stiff mustard gown, the mood shifted subtly. A few guests, friends of Aunt Coi, offered pitying smiles. Others looked away quickly.
“Oh, Chloe,” I heard Mrs. Dao whisper to another committee member, “such a shame. After all the effort your aunt made to find her a traditional piece…”
A muffled snicker came from a group of Tiffany’s friends. I felt their eyes on the mustard fabric, the stiff drape, the awkward length that bunched slightly around my ankles. I kept my head high, a practiced, blank expression on my face, but my cheeks burned.
Aunt Coi caught my eye across the crowded lobby. Her smile didn’t falter, but a flicker of triumph, cold and satisfying, passed through her gaze. It was a silent affirmation: she had won. Her daughter was the star, radiant and celebrated. I was merely present, kept in my place, a testament to her fabricated narrative of tradition and filial piety.
Minh stood beside me, his arm resting gently on my back. I felt the tremor in his touch, his silent plea for me to maintain composure. He was worried, but also, I knew, proud that I was keeping his promise.
But the dress felt heavier than ever, not just with its peculiar inner lining, but with the weight of my mother’s secret, my father’s fear, and Aunt Coi’s decades of resentment. The music began to swell from the auditorium, signaling the start of the processional. The spotlight was about to turn to us.
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