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

I hurried up the steps, the heavy box tucked under my arm, my keys clinking against the brass lock.

The house smelled of morning coffee and old wood. I ran up the stairs to our bedroom, my heart rate rising with every step.

I opened the heavy oak wardrobe, pushing aside Damon’s gray suits and my own row of beige cardigans.

At the very back, behind a stack of winter blankets we had not used in years, there was a dark, narrow space where the floorboards met the wall.

I slid the gray box into the corner, covering it with a wool shawl.

If Damon found it, he would ask why I needed to draw attention to myself, his voice calm and reasonable while he made the dress seem like a foolish mistake.

I closed the wardrobe door slowly, ensuring the latch clicked shut.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled the small dresser drawer toward me until the old pine wood squeaked. My mother’s velvet jewelry box sat under a stack of winter scarves, its blue fabric worn down to the grey thread at the corners.

I lifted the small lid and took out the pearl earrings, holding them in my open palm. They were small, slightly yellowed by thirty years of storage, and one of the silver backs was loose.

I held them up next to my ears, wondering if they looked too old-fashioned for a fancy restaurant. I reached for the small mirror on the wall, but my hand stopped before I could lift it.

The sound of the television downstairs hummed through the floorboards, a quiet drone of afternoon news. I looked at the little pearls, remembering how my mother only wore them on Sundays or when my father took her to the county fair.