Wearing an Emerald Green Dress on My Birthday Cost Me My Husband

“Lily,” I said, placing a hand over the mouthpiece. “She was just asking about the garden.”

He checked his watch, turned the doorknob, and stepped out onto the porch without another word.

I stood there listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, the cold paper towel still pressed against my thumb.

The wind in Oak Creek was cold that afternoon, sending dry brown sycamore leaves scraping across the asphalt of Main Street. I had three hours before the boys got home from their shifts, and my grocery list was already checked off.

I stopped in front of Evelyn’s Dress Shop because the window display had changed since Tuesday.

Behind the glass, on a pale mannequin with no face, hung a dress the color of deep moss after rain. It was silk, with a high neck and long sleeves that gathered at the wrists, catching the pale October light.

I looked at my own reflection in the plate glass, my faded denim jacket and the worn pearl earrings my mother had given me when I turned thirty.

The brass bell above the door chimed as a woman in a wool coat walked out, leaving the door open just long enough for the scent of lavender and expensive starch to reach the sidewalk.

I found myself stepping inside before I could think of a reason to turn back.

The shop was quiet, the heavy green carpet swallowing the sound of my flat shoes.

“It just came in yesterday,” the saleswoman said, coming around a rack of wool skirts. She had a tape measure draped over her shoulder like a silver snake.

I touched the hem of the green silk, my fingers feeling rough against the smooth fabric.

“It is beautiful,” I said, “but I have nowhere to wear something like this.”