FAMILY HEIRLOOM

As a child I used to sneak into Mother’s room just to peek at the family heirloom – the dress worn by generations of brides, all lace and pearls with a filmy veil, that would one day be mine.
In my twenties I judged every man I dated by how he held up against my vision of that dress and myself, the traditional virgin bride, wafting down the aisle to meet him, and for years every man was found wanting.
Until I met George – bearded, burly, sexy George. Just watching his hands roll a cigarette made me tremble. Riding astride his Harley with my thighs gripping his hips and my face pressed to his leather-clad shoulders, I couldn’t wait for those muscles to be naked in my arms. The result was inevitable.
Mother was furious, and when the heirloom dress wouldn’t fit over my bump she shrieked that everyone would know what I’d been up to and she’d never be able to hold her head up again.
“So I’ll wear red!” I yelled. “If you think I’m a scarlet woman I’ll dress like one,” and she sobbed over her shattered dreams, absent-mindedly wiping mascara streaks onto the heirloom veil.