It’s been six months since I last opened the innermost door of my big wardrobe. I simply didn’t dare to even touch the ornate wrought-iron handle. As if I were afraid that the clothes inside—the ones that no longer fit—would poke their heads out and snicker: Well? Still not brave enough to try us on? Since that’s exactly the case, it’s better not to tempt fate.
I get dressed from the first three sections—plenty of clothes there already. In fact, more than enough, since I always end up wearing the same few pieces anyway. To the grocery store or when I take the kids somewhere, I wear the soft trousers with the elastic waistband. For running errands, the dark blue, neatly pressed ones. For other outings, the black, ankle-length dress with tiny flowers that nicely accentuates my bust. So really, it doesn’t even matter what’s hiding in that far, forgotten section.
It’s been ages since I last thought about the dark pink linen trousers or the mauve ones with the soft fabric and the fancy belt. I no longer picture myself in the navy blouse with little anchors or the knee-length lace dress. As for the rest—well, I don’t even remember them anymore. What they all have in common is this: none of them fit. Most didn’t even fit when I bought them, but back then I was absolutely convinced that within six months I’d conquer the world wearing them. How long has it been since then? Three years? Or four already?
Even though I don’t quite feel ready, I finally swing open that cursed inner door with one determined move. The sight is dazzling. Dresses, skirts, trousers, blouses, lace—one more beautiful than the next. I’m not even sure I want another slap in the face. I half-close the door again. No, not today. I don’t need this. But just as I’m about to shut it completely, I spot that color. That gorgeous shade. Oh, whatever—if it doesn’t fit, I’ll get over it. I pull it off the hanger and toss it onto the bed. We study each other for a moment. We both need a few breaths to gather strength—me especially. The next moment, I feel the fine, silky lining against my skin. I zip it up, button it, and there it is. I’m standing in front of the wardrobe mirror wearing the trousers I used to dream about. The ones I swore I’d slim into and pair with a sleeveless black top—or maybe that navy one with the anchor pattern.
I walk slowly down the stairs, savoring every step from the bedroom to the living room. I’ve earned this. Today, I’m the hero—at least in my own story. Years of hard work have finally paid off. Downstairs, my husband and teenage son are already waiting, ready to leave. I know that in a second, their eyes will widen, and they’ll gasp in admiration: Wow! You did it! You’re the hottest mom in the world!
With a proud smile, I step toward them, ready to wave off their compliments modestly.
“What’s for lunch, by the way?” my son asks.
My gaze shifts to my husband. Not yet, I think. First comes the admiration—there’s plenty of time to discuss the menu later.
He studies me, clearly taken aback. Understandable, really—this is quite the transformation from the usual loose trousers and oversized T-shirts that carefully hid me from the world. Now, in this fitted, boldly colored marvel and elegant blouse, the difference is striking.
“Hm,” he says thoughtfully. “How about we stop by that lookout on the way home? The one where we had that divine fish platter last time. I remember they had cordon bleu too, if the kids would rather have that.”