I held them up next to my ears, wondering if they looked too old-fashioned for a fancy restaurant. I reached for the small mirror on the wall, but my hand stopped before I could lift it.
The sound of the television downstairs hummed through the floorboards, a quiet drone of afternoon news. I looked at the little pearls, remembering how my mother only wore them on Sundays or when my father took her to the county fair.
Damon came down the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards, and stopped by the bedroom door frame. He adjusted his shirt collar, his eyes moving from my face down to my hands.
“Are we wearing the family heirlooms now?” he asked.
“I was just looking at them,” I said, my voice trailing off as I went to put them back in the box.
“Good,” he said, turning back toward the stairs. “We wouldn’t want you looking like you’re trying too hard at your age.”
“They were my mother’s,” I said.
“I know whose they were,” he said, his voice carrying back from the stairwell. “I’m just saying, let’s keep things simple.”
He laughed, the quick, dry sound he always made when he was teasing, but I kept my hand on the velvet lid until I heard him reach the kitchen. I decided right then that I would leave them in the drawer.
The next evening, I stood by the small mirror in the downstairs bathroom and applied the new lipstick I bought at the drugstore. It was a shade called Warm Berry, brighter than the pale pink I had worn since our wedding day.
I smoothed my hands down my apron, trying to decide if the color made my teeth look yellow. A floorboard creaked in the hall behind me.
“Is there a parade in town?” Damon asked from the bathroom doorway.
He had a mug of black coffee in his hand and was checking his watch.
“I wanted to try something different for the dinner next week,” I said, looking down at the sink.
“It makes you look like you’re heading to a high school dance,” he said, taking a sip from his mug. “At fifty, Elena, we should probably leave the paint to the girls.”
He smiled to show he was just kidding, but the coffee mug clicked hard against the tile counter when he set it down.
I took a piece of damp toilet paper and wiped the berry color off my lips until they were pale again. I threw the paper into the trash bin and did not look at him.
“You always take my little jokes so seriously,” he said, laughing as he walked into the living room.
I stood there for a long time, watching my reflection in the dim light of the bathroom. I rubbed my hands down my thighs, feeling the rough cotton of my apron against my palms.
On Thursday morning, the mail carrier left the monthly credit card statement on the porch. I sat at the dining room table with the envelope, sliding a silver butter knife under the seal to open it quietly.
The charge from Evelyn’s Dress Shop was right there near the bottom, one hundred and forty dollars, standing out against the utility bills and the grocery totals. I heard Damon’s heavy boots descending the wooden stairs.
I slipped the small paper receipt from the boutique under my thigh, smoothing my skirt over it as he walked into the room.
“Is the electric bill in there?” he asked, adjusting his collar.
“Yes,” I said, holding out the white sheet but keeping the envelope flat on my lap. “It’s about the same as last month.”
He took the paper, squinting at the numbers before folding it and putting it in his shirt pocket.
“We need to watch the spending this month,” he said, his eyes lingering on my lap. “I saw a charge from some boutique on the bank app yesterday.”
I held my breath, waiting to see if he would ask for the name on the receipt.
“It was just some gifts for the kids,” I said, looking down at my hands.
“Right,” he said, turning toward the kitchen. “Just make sure we aren’t buying things we can’t afford to show off.”
The paper receipt felt hot against my skin under the fabric of my skirt. I waited until I heard the kitchen faucet run before I pulled the receipt out and tucked it deep inside my old leather purse.
In the afternoon, I went out to the front porch to sweep the dried oak leaves off the steps. The air was cool, but the sun was bright enough to make me squint as I worked the broom into the corners.
Mrs. Gable, my neighbor from across the gravel driveway, was leaning against her mailbox, watching the yellow school bus pass. She was sixty-eight, with silver hair kept tight in a bun, and she always wore a blue cardigan even in the early autumn heat.
“You’re turning fifty next week, aren’t you, Elena?” she called out, walking over to the edge of my lawn.
“On the twelfth,” I said, resting my hands on top of the broom handle.
“Are the kids taking you somewhere nice?”
“They booked a table at The Gilded Lantern,” I said. “Jake insisted on it.”
She stopped walking and looked toward our front door.
“That’s a lovely place,” she said, her voice dropping a little. “You should let them spoil you. You’ve spent twenty-five years putting everyone else first.”
“I’m a little nervous about it, to be honest,” I said, looking down at the wooden porch steps.
“Nervous about a dinner?” she asked.
“I don’t want to make a fuss,” I said, my voice dropping. “Damon says it’s an expensive place, and I don’t want to look out of place.”
Mrs. Gable looked at me for a long moment, her hand resting on the wooden railing of my porch.
“A woman should shine on her birthday, Elena,” she said softly. “Don’t let anyone make you feel small in your own skin.”
She patted my arm before turning to walk back to her house, leaving her words hanging in the cool afternoon air.
I went back inside the quiet house and walked up the stairs to our bedroom.
