She moved to the city at eighteen, married Paul at twenty-four, and settled into a large white house with columns.
Paul owned a chain of tire stores.
Diane joined committees and became particular about the company she kept.
She called her childhood “back east” and introduced me as, “My sister Ruth.
She does hems.”
I learned not to correct her.
The one part of Diane’s life I never regretted was her daughter, Chloe.
I was thirty-two when Chloe was born.
My own marriage had ended, and I never had children.
I loved my niece fiercely.
Diane was busy with social obligations, so Chloe spent most Saturdays with me from the time she was five.
She sorted buttons on a stool, sewed a crooked pillow at nine, and made a skirt that fell apart in the wash at twelve.
We laughed until we cried.
I taught her to thread a needle, measure twice, and unpick a bad seam instead of hiding it.
I also taught her about the pale blue message.
She loved turning up the hems of dresses in my shop to read the little inscriptions.
“It’s like finding a secret,” she used to say.
Last year, when Chloe was twenty-six, she became engaged to Sam, a sweet, slightly goofy young man who could cry at dog food commercials.
Three days after the engagement, she climbed the stairs to my shop with a bag of donuts, sat on her old stool, and asked, “Aunt Ruthie, will you make my wedding dress?
I don’t want a store dress.
I want a dress from you.”
I had to turn toward the window so she wouldn’t see my eyes fill.
I told her I would be honored.
Before we’d finished the donuts, Diane called.
She’d heard about Chloe’s idea.
I said I was happy to make the gown.
After a pause, she said it was sweet of me and would save money.
“Paul was prepared to spend twelve thousand dollars on a designer gown,” she said, “but I can’t have people knowing it’s homemade.
These are important people, Ruth.
We’ll say it came from a designer.
You understand?
And I assume you’re not expecting to be paid.
It’s family.”
I should have objected to the lie.
Instead, I said yes.