Hoofdstuk 2: De roze jurk

Leo rende zijn kamer uit, zijn sokken gleden over de houten vloer. « Oma! Tante Clara! »

Hij was een lieve jongen, gevoelig en aardig, met warrig bruin haar en mijn ogen – ogen die nog steeds met een vertrouwend gevoel van verwondering naar de wereld keken. Hij sloeg zijn armen om de benen van mijn moeder. Ze aaide hem afwezig over zijn hoofd, haar vingers stijf, voorzichtig om haar manicure niet te verpesten.

‘Gefeliciteerd met je verjaardag, jongen,’ zei Clara, terwijl ze hem de doos in de handen drukte. ‘Maak hem open. Hij is van ons allebei. Het is een designstuk.’

Leo zat op het kleedje en scheurde met zijn kleine handjes enthousiast aan het goedkope inpakpapier. « Zijn het Legoblokjes? Is het het nieuwe Starship-model? »

Het papier viel eraf. Hij tilde het dunne kartonnen deksel op.

Zijn glimlach verdween even. Toen was hij helemaal weg.

He reached into the box and pulled out a garment. It was a dress. A neon pink, frilly, polyester monstrosity with cheap plastic sequins that were already shedding onto my floor. It looked like a garish costume for a four-year-old girl, not a gift for an eight-year-old boy.

Leo held it up, his lower lip trembling. “Grandma… I’m a boy.”

My mother threw her head back and laughed. It was a shrill, grating sound that bounced off the brick walls, sharp as broken glass. “Oh, please! I was in a rush at the discount store and grabbed it from the clearance bin. It was five dollars! Besides, clothes are clothes. Don’t be so sensitive.”

She looked at me, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “Tell your mom to turn it into a shirt or something. Sewing is her hobby anyway, isn’t it? She should be able to fix it.”

Leo dropped the dress as if it were on fire. Tears welled up in his big eyes. He looked utterly humiliated.

Clara, never one to miss an opportunity for cruelty, sneered and raised her phone to film him. “Aww, look at him cry. It actually suits you, Leo. My daughter Sarah has plenty of old dresses—do you want to try them? After all, with a broke mother, you should get used to wearing hand-me-downs. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

Something inside me snapped. It was a quiet snap, not a loud explosion. It was the sound of a single, crucial thread breaking under years of unbearable tension.

I walked over, snatched the hideous pink dress from the floor, and threw it into the corner of the room. The cheap fabric made a pathetic rustling sound as it landed in a heap.

“That’s enough,” I said. My voice was low, devoid of the usual submissive wobble they were accustomed to hearing from me.

The air in the room froze.

“Excuse me?” Clara stopped recording, her phone lowering slightly. “Did you just throw my gift? After all the trouble I went to? That’s incredibly ungrateful.”

“It wasn’t a gift,” I said, my voice hardening. “It was an insult. You bought it to hurt him. You bought it to mock me and my work.”

I helped Leo stand up, my hands firm on his shoulders. I wiped his tears with my thumb. “Go to your room, Leo. Put on your headphones and play your game. I’ll handle this.”

He looked at me, saw the resolve in my eyes, and ran, slamming his door behind him.

I turned to face them. My mother looked annoyed, as if I had just committed a grave social faux pas. Clara looked amused, a glint of challenge in her eyes.

“So what?” Clara rolled her eyes. “Are you going to cry now too? God, you’re so dramatic. No wonder your husband left.”

I wasn’t crying. My gaze drifted from her face down to the handbag she was clutching against her chest like a shield. It was identical to my mother’s. Another Aurelia “Athena.” A beautiful bag. Except for one, tiny, glaring detail I had just noticed.

I took a step closer. “Let me see that bag, Clara.”