THE RED DRESS

LUCY

The red dress doesn't fit anymore.

I know this before I even zip it. Four years ago, Kelvin bought it for me the week before our wedding; silk that fell like water, a neckline that made me feel beautiful. Back then, it whispered against my ribs. Now it clings.

I suck in my stomach. The zipper protests halfway up my back.

My fingers shake as I try again. The zipper gives another inch, then stops. I can barely breathe, but I don't care. Kelvin loved this dress. He told me I looked like a dream in it. That was four years ago, when he still looked at me like I mattered.

The guestroom’s door crashes open.

"Oh, Lucy." Patricia's voice drips disgust before I even turn around. "What on earth are you wearing?"

My mother-in-law stands in the doorway, her face twisted like she's smelled something rotten. Diane appears behind her, already smirking.

"I – I thought –" My stutter catches immediately, the way it always does when I'm nervous. "K-Kelvin bought this for –"

"Four years ago," Patricia cuts me off. "When you were still presentable."

The words hit like a slap. I look down at myself, at the dress pulling tight across my hips, the slight bulge at my stomach that no amount of skipped meals has erased. Shame crawls up my throat.

"You look like a stuffed sausage," Diane says, leaning against the doorframe. "Is that really what you want Kelvin to see after all this time?"

"I just wanted to look n-nice for –"

"Nice?" Patricia laughs, sharp and cruel. "Darling, that ship sailed about thirty pounds ago."

I should be used to this by now. Four years of living in this house, four years of their constant commentary about my stutter, my weight, the way I chew too loudly or stand too close or breathe wrong. But today was supposed to be different.

Today, Kelvin comes home.

"Change," Patricia orders. "Into something that actually fits. We leave in twenty minutes."

She sweeps out. Diane lingers long enough to mouth "fat cow" before following.

The red dress puddles at my feet ten minutes later. I've tried on everything else I own – a gray dress that Patricia said made me look like a storm cloud, a blue one that Diane claimed was "tragic," a black dress that apparently screamed "funeral." Nothing is right. Nothing is ever right.

I settle on a loose beige blouse and dark jeans. Shapeless. Forgettable. Safe.

When I come downstairs, Patricia looks me up and down with fresh horror.

"Is that what you're wearing to the airport?"

"You told me to ch-change –"

"Into something appropriate, not something a homeless person would reject." She checks her diamond watch. "We don't have time for this. Diane, give her your cardigan. Maybe we can hide some of the damage."

The cardigan is too small. I don't say this. I pull it on and follow them to the car, my chest tight with something that might be hope or might be dread.

---

I sit at the back as Patricia and Diane spend the entire drive discussing Kelvin's success like I'm not there. Nexus Energy is worth over three hundred million now. He's establishing the American branch here in Los Angeles. He's been featured in Forbes, in Bloomberg, everywhere.

My husband. My Kelvin. The man I haven't spoken to in four years.

"Do you think he'll remember her?" Diane asks, like I can't hear.

"Of course he will," Patricia says. "She was useful once."

The word sits heavy in my stomach.

---

LAX is chaos – travelers everywhere, announcements echoing, the smell of coffee and recycled air. Patricia positions us near the international arrivals gate, her and Diane standing close together. She points to a spot six feet away.

"Stand there," she tells me. "And for God's sake, don't stutter when you greet him. It's embarrassing enough that you look like this."

I open my mouth to respond, but she's already turned away.

So I stand where I'm told, six feet away from my husband's family, and I wait.

My heart is hammering. Four years. Four years since I've seen his face, heard his voice, felt his touch. Four years of staying behind like he asked, of sending him money when Patricia said he needed it, of believing that once his company succeeded, everything would be worth it.

He promised. Just one year apart, he'd said. Then we'd be together forever.

One year became four, but he's coming back now. That has to mean something.

The arrivals board updates: LANDED.

My pulse skyrockets. I smooth down my blouse, tuck my hair behind my ears, try to stand straighter even though the too-small cardigan is cutting into my arms.

"Stop fidgeting," Patricia hisses. "You look desperate."

I freeze.

People start emerging through the sliding doors – business travelers with rolling bags, families reuniting, someone holding balloons. I scan every face, searching.

Then I see him.

Kelvin.

He looks exactly the same. Same easy smile, same confident walk, same perfectly styled hair. He's wearing an expensive suit now – charcoal gray, tailored. Success looks good on him.

My breath catches. Here he is. My husband. Finally.

I take a step forward.

Then I see her.

Miranda walks beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. His ex-girlfriend. The one he dated before me, the one he said didn't matter anymore, the one who was supposed to be ancient history.

She's glowing. Radiant.

She's pregnant.

Very, very pregnant.

The world tilts.

Patricia and Diane rush forward, all smiles and laughter. They embrace Kelvin first, then Miranda – warmly, familiarly, like this is exactly what they expected. Like Miranda belongs here.

Like I don't.

I stand frozen six feet away, watching my husband hug his mother while his pregnant ex-girlfriend beams beside him.

He hasn't looked at me once.

"Kelvin!" My voice cracks. "I – I'm so gl-glad you're –"

He finally turns. His eyes slide over me – brief, dismissive, cold. The way you'd look at a stranger. At nothing.

"Lucy." He says my name like it tastes bad. "You're still here."

Still here. Like I'm a stain that should have faded by now.

Miranda touches his arm, and he softens immediately. Smiles at her the way he used to smile at me, before Germany, before silence, before I became whatever I am now.

"Kelvin?" My voice cracks. " I don't - What's -" I can't finish. My brain won't form the words.

Miranda. Pregnant. Here. With him.

"We need to talk," Kelvin interrupts. "At the house."

Hope flickers, stupid and desperate. Maybe this is a misunderstanding. Maybe there's an explanation. Maybe -

"Actually," he says, still not quite looking at me, "there's something you should know now."

He pulls Miranda closer. She fits perfectly against his side, her hand resting on her swollen belly.

"This is Miranda," Kelvin says. Each word lands like a hammer. "My wife."

The airport noise fades.

My wife.

Not his ex-girlfriend. Not a friend. Not a business partner.

His wife.