The Bouquet I Handed My Mother

Money Was Tight

In May, I drove to Lexington with my cousin Pam and tried on dresses at a bridal shop on the south side of town.

I found one I loved for $1,850, with lace on the sleeves.

I called Mama from the parking lot to tell her. She was quiet a long time.

Then she said, “Baby, I hate to tell you this. Money’s just tight right now. I can’t do the two thousand. I’m so sorry.”

I sat in my car with the air running. I asked her if everything was all right, if Daddy’s milk check had come up short, if somebody was sick. She said no, nothing like that, just tight.

“It’s fine, Mama,” I said. “Don’t you worry about it for one minute.”

I went back inside and told the lady I would keep looking.

Then I went to the sample rack in the back, found a plain ivory A-line in my size for $600, and put it on my own credit card.

I want to be fair to myself here. I did not cry about it. I am a loan officer.

I know that people make promises in February that they cannot keep in May, and I know that it usually is not about you.

Nancy Pruitt down the road took the hem up and put a bustle in it for eighty dollars and a pound cake.

When I stood in her front room in that dress, I thought I looked pretty. I still think so.

I did ask Daddy about it once, out by the bulk tank. I asked him if things were hard, if the farm was in trouble and they were hiding it from me.

Daddy wiped his hands on a rag and frowned. “Farm’s fine, Brynnie. Milk price is up a little this year, if anything. Your mother’s money is her money. She’s never once asked me about mine.”

So I let it go. I figured she had decided she needed her savings for something, a new car or her retirement, and was too embarrassed to tell me.

I would rather have had the truth, but I let it go.