A Hand-Me-Down Exposed Mom's Favoritism

A wave of nausea hit me, and I almost threw up.

I grabbed the coat and rushed out of the room. "Mom, what's going on with this coat? Why is there hair inside? And why does it smell strange?" I asked.

My mother, Claire Donovan, was slicing fruit in the kitchen, and her hand jolted at my words. Her gaze flickered for a second before she quickly regained her composure.

"Oh, you mean that. That was the display piece in the showcase. Other customers have probably tried it on. The sales associate said it was out of stock, and that was the last one left. I didn't want to trouble her by asking for a transfer from another store.

"I already steamed it after I got home. I probably just missed those hairs. Just make do with it for now. It'll be fine after it's washed. Don't make things difficult for that poor young woman who's just trying to do her job."

Mom had always been a pushover. If someone shortchanged her while buying groceries, she just smiled and let it slide. When people borrowed money and never repaid her, she was too embarrassed to ask for it back.

"This coat cost thousands of dollars. How could you buy a dirty floor model that's been tried on? No, I have to return it," I said.

Mom panicked and grabbed my arm. "It's the holiday season. Don't even think about returning it! It's bad luck! If you aren't going to wear it, just leave it be. Don't make a scene at the store. I can't bear the embarrassment!"

The more she tried to stop me, the more suspicious I became. I didn't doubt Mom, but I figured some crooked salesperson had tricked her into paying full price for a defective item.

…

The next day, while Mom went out to buy groceries, I took the coat and headed straight to the brand's boutique downtown. The shop was brightly lit, and the sales associate wore a crisp uniform.

I set the coat on the counter and pointed at the strands of hair. "Is this the quality you offer for coats that cost thousands of dollars? How long has this display piece been tried on?"

The sales associate paused for a moment. She put on a pair of gloves and examined the coat carefully, her brow furrowing deeper with every passing second. Finally, she looked up, a strange expression on her face.

She answered, "Ma'am, first of all, this coat wasn't sold at our store. Second, it's from last year's collection and was discontinued long ago. We haven't sold a single one recently."

She pointed to the fine print on the inner label and then to the fabric's texture. "Most importantly, the embroidery on the authentic label is raised, but yours is flat. Also, the fabric isn't cashmere; it's a blended material.

"This is a poorly made knockoff. Judging by the wear and tear, it doesn't look like a display piece. It looks more like an old coat that's been worn for years."

My head throbbed.

A knockoff?

An old coat?

Had Mom paid boutique prices only to be swindled into buying a secondhand knockoff?

Before I left, the sales associate kindly showed me several details to help me tell genuine products from counterfeits so I wouldn't be fooled again.

As I stepped out of the mall, a gust of cold air made me shiver.

Mom was incredibly frugal. If she realized she had been cheated out of thousands of dollars, she would be devastated.

Driven by a sudden, inexplicable thought, I remembered the coat she had given my sister, Brielle Montgomery. Could Brielle's coat be a knockoff as well?