LitFashionCurator

I never expected to cry over a dress. Not the good kind of cry, anyway. Growing up in a financially strapped household, clothes were about function, not flair. My mother worked at a school and brought home lunch leftovers to build up our food at home. My absentee father sent nothing but silence and disappointment through the mail. When he did make an appearance, he acted like he was doing us a favor. Shopping was a luxury we couldn’t afford, so most of my wardrobe came from church drives, thrift stores, or the occassional clearance rack at an off-discount store. When I got engaged, I knew there wouldn’t be a grand wedding or champagne-soaked reception. We planned to marry at the local justice of the peace, then have a potluck at the VFW post in Dedham, Massachusetts. Still, something inside me longed for a beautiful dress. Not just any dress, but the dress—the one that made you feel like the world might pause for you, even for just a moment. I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone...