During our lavish engagement party, I watched from the balcony as my fiancée sh*ved my mother into the decorative fountain. “Your cheap clothes are ruining my aesthetic,” she laughed with her rich friends.

And the blue dress is going to be altered a fourth time.

My mother told me last week.

Not because it needs it.

“Because it’s been to too many good things now,” she said, “to retire.

Take it in

a little at the waist, Rafael.

I’ve got somewhere to wear it in the spring.”

“Where?”

“Your building on Fenmore.

The graduation.

Nine women.

The first class.

I’d like to be the one who hands them their notebooks.”

“In the blue dress.”

“In the blue dress,” she said.