Cassandra and the Rooms Money Buys
I first met Cassandra Whitmore at her mother’s brunch in a house that reeked of wealth like perfume—crystals, orchids, marble floors reflecting both my face and my discomfort. Cassandra glided in silk, poised and polished. Liam’s face glowed when he said her name. I wanted to believe what he saw: warmth, sincerity, “family first.” I tried to ignore the flicker in her eyes when they landed on my well-polished, well-worn shoes.
What Could I Possibly Give?
Their wedding was to be a spectacle: four hundred guests, imported flowers, a New York orchestra, champagne with opinions. My pension couldn’t compete. So I turned to what I still had in abundance—time, memory, and thread.
I spent the summer sewing a quilt. Patches from Liam’s baby blanket. A square from his first school uniform, grass stain and all. A scrap from Henry’s Sunday shirt, still faintly scented of sawdust. A piece of my own wedding dress, ivory faded to honey. In the center, by lamplight and sheer will, I stitched: Liam & Cassandra — Joined in Love. The seams weren’t perfect. The love was.
