“This will look more appropriate for someone like you,” my mother, Denise Pratt, said as she snapped her scissors shut with a crisp click. She stood in the upstairs hallway of our house in Savannah, Georgia, surrounded by pieces of fabric that used to be my dresses. “It matches what you truly are.”
The clothes I had purchased with my own paychecks fell to the hardwood floor like discarded feathers. The pile grew larger with every cut she made. It took less than ten minutes for her to transform years of effort into scraps unfit for charity bins. It was the evening before my brother Troy’s wedding. He was the celebrated child. The pride of the Pratt family. And I, Selena Pratt, returned to my designated role. I was the mistake who never learned her place.
From the bedroom doorway, my aunt Deirdre laughed and swirled her wine like she was toasting the destruction. “Who knows. Maybe now someone will finally feel sorry enough for you to give you a chance at a date.”
I remained silent. Crying would have fed them. I had learned over the years that tears were a language my family translated into permission to hurt me more. So I swallowed every lump in my throat and forced my breathing to stay level.
