Lara keeps going.
“This dress,” she says, turning just enough for her voice to carry, “is the dress Marco told me about the first night he ever really told me his story.”
A tear slips down her cheek.
“He told me his mother wore it the day he was born. He told me she wore it at his college graduation because it was the nicest thing she owned and because every important moment in his life belonged to both of them. He told me there were mornings she came home from the market too tired to stand and still sat beside him while he studied. He told me she sold vegetables in the rain so he could buy textbooks. He told me he has never once worn a suit, signed a contract, cashed a paycheck, or entered a room like this without carrying her sacrifices inside him.”
You do not hear every reaction, but you hear enough.
