She laughed into my shoulder. "I know."
"You sold the dress?"
"Yes."
"You booked me a trip?"
"Yes."
"Lisa."
"I know."
I leaned back enough to look at her. "I am so proud of you."
A woman from the school touched my arm and said, "Take all the time you need."
Later, after the music started again and the students went back to pretending they were not emotionally ruined, Lisa and I sat in the car outside the school. Neither of us was ready to drive home.
The silence was different now.
She picked at a loose thread on her jeans and said, "Are you mad?"
I looked at her. "Mad is not the word."
She winced. "Okay."
I let out this wet, broken laugh. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack when you came out in that jacket."
"Sorry."
"I was confused. Then horrified. Then offended on behalf of silk."
Then she got quiet again.
"I just couldn't wear it," she said. "Once I figured it out."
"How did you know?"
She looked guilty. "I found the salon receipt in your purse when I was looking for gum. Then I realized you didn't just cut it."
"I wanted to be mad at you," she said. "But mostly I just felt... I do not know. Small. Like I had no idea how much you were carrying."
I reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
"You are not supposed to carry me," I said. "I am the mom."
"Maybe. But I can still love you."
When we got home, she handed me an envelope.
Inside was the trip confirmation. Three days. Small beach town. Modest hotel.
There was also a folded note.
It said, "You gave up something you loved so I could have one night. I want you to have something better. I want you to have a reason to believe life can still be good. Dad would still call you Rapunzel. I just think he would also call you brave."
I went to the bathroom after that and looked at myself in the mirror.
But for the first time since the haircut, I did not feel like I was staring at loss.
That night Lisa fell asleep on the couch with her head in my lap, still wearing that T-shirt. I sat there brushing my fingers through her hair while the house stayed quiet around us.
There's a framed photo of my husband on the bookshelf across from the couch. He is smiling in it, like he knows something funny that nobody else knows yet.
