The baby essentials were already in my cart: pacifiers, nursing pads, diaper cream. I had saved about $150 of “only-for-me” money over months. The dress cost $1,500; far out of reach, but I just wanted to feel it, to pretend for five minutes.
The boutique was quiet when I walked in, one hand resting on my belly as always. The gold dress shimmered under the soft lights: delicate embroidery, thin straps, fabric that whispered luxury. I reached out to touch it, lost in the daydream.
That’s when the saleswoman spoke.
“Ma’am, we don’t carry sizes for women that… large.”
I turned. She was maybe early forties, dark bob, mouth twisted in disgust.
“Excuse me?” I asked, stunned.
She looked me up and down like I had dragged mud across her marble floors.
“Have you seen yourself? These dresses?” She flicked her hand at the rack. “You’ll stretch them. And by the look of you, you can’t afford anything here anyway. Try the thrift store; that’s more your level.”
I froze. Heat rushed to my cheeks. My hand flew to my belly like I could shield us both.
“What gives you the right to speak to me like that?” I asked, voice trembling. “Let me decide what I can afford.”
