My mother bought clothes to make herself feel good. She imagined herself being invited to a dinner party at a house with vanilla-scented candles and a chandelier (or at least a fancy light fixture) and swept into a drawing room covered in white (not old, not brown) carpet where adults stood near the hors d’oeuvres tables cupping quiche in their palms and drinking sweet tea out of wine glasses. Inevitably the conversation would lead to my mother’s new wardrobe. Knowingly, she would squeeze a black curl and flash teeth...
