In My Mother's Size Chart, I Was Always Twelve

On Saturday morning, my mother still knocked.

"Deidre, get up. Constance's fitting is at eight thirty."

I was already washed and dressed, checking my portfolio bag.

"I'm not going."

She saw the backpack by the bed, and her face slowly changed.

"Didn't we agree yesterday, you'd go with your sister first?"

"You agreed."

My father came out of the master bedroom.

"Don't start fighting this early. Go the second the fitting shop opens, get it done, then leave."

"I won't make it."

"It's a forty-minute train. What's the rush?"

"Fifteen minutes late and you're disqualified."

Constance ran out of her room, hair still loose.

"Mom, I'm not doing the fitting."

"My old dress fits fine."

My mother turned to look at her.

"The waist's still loose. What if it slips on stage?"

"The clerk can take it in."

"It's your first solo. Can't you take it seriously?"

Then she looked at me again.

"Deidre, it's your sister's first time in a solo. Can't you help her just this once?"

I didn't answer.

She was seven the first time she went on stage, and I was the one who sewed on her sequins.

Ten the first time she competed at the city level, and I was the one taking in her waistband backstage.

Last month, the first time she switched dance teachers, I was the one who ran to three studios with her.

Every one of them counts as a first.

Because anything to do with my sister is worth the whole family recalculating.

And anything to do with me can be canceled at any time.

"No, I can't."

I shouldered my bag.

My mother's eyes went red.

"Fine. Go."

"From now on, when something in this house needs mending, don't expect anyone to come to you."

The line was meant as a punishment.

But hearing it, I felt something loosen instead.

Constance chased me to the elevator, a little sewing kit in her hands.

"Deidre, what if a seam splits on your piece. Want to take this?"

"Yes."

She pressed the box into my hand.

"Tell me how it goes."

On the way to the station, my mother called three times.

The first, to ask how many centimeters to take in my sister's waistband.

The second, to say my brother couldn't find his membership card for the sneaker store.

The third connected with no words, then hung up.

I set my phone to silent.

There were eight people at the studio for the final round.

On each table was the same white muslin and a measurement sheet. Three hours to adjust the pattern and finish a half-body sample.

When I drew the armhole, I habitually shaved the ease allowance down.

At home, the standard for a garment had always been simply that you could get into it.

Pat Estes, running the evaluation, glanced over.

"It'll bind when the arm lifts. Add the ease back."

She didn't say it was close enough. She didn't tell me to make do.

I ripped out that line and drew it again.

The finished sample wasn't my best.

The neckline lagged, and the ease on the left sleeve wasn't even enough.

Pat looked at my two-tone short jacket too.

"Why two fabrics?"

"There wasn't enough of the original. What I bought to make up for it didn't match."

"So you turned the color mismatch into structure?"

"Yes."

"The idea works. The execution's still rough. Go home and wait to hear."

No praise, no promise.

But she told me clearly what was good and what wasn't.

That already put me more at ease than a single "close enough."

The evaluation ended at five twenty.

By the time I got back to the complex, it was past seven.

There were more than a dozen new messages in the family group.

My mother had posted the reshot family portrait.

Father, Mother, brother, sister.

Four people in well-fitting new clothes, standing in a neat row.

Aunt Marlene had replied underneath:

"This one's lovely. Like a happy family of four."

My mother pushed back almost at once:

"What family of four? There are five of us."

"Deidre went to a job evaluation."

My father added a line too:

"If you can't talk, don't talk nonsense."

Aunt Marlene deleted her message and sent a smiley face instead.

Looking at those two lines of defense, my eyes suddenly went hot.

But right below them was the photographer's message:

"If you want to add the eldest daughter, I can cut her out of the last photo separately."

My mother replied:

"Sure. Try to make it blend in naturally."

Back home, the digital frame was already cycling through today's photos.

My mother had left food for me, still warm in the pot.

"Eat first. How'd it go?"

"Okay."

"Good, then."

She handed me the chopsticks, then explained:

"The photographer had other appointments after us. Everyone was already there. We couldn't make them all wait on you alone."

"You could've picked another day."

"Another day means booking all over again. Besides, they can edit you in afterward. Same effect."

It's not the same.

In front of the relatives, they'll say there are five of us.

And still think the one missing from the photo can just be added in later.

The screen switched to the next photo.

Four people standing under the lights.

Everyone's clothes fit perfectly, and no one needed to be added in.