Twenty-eight

“This is for your honeymoon.”

The single sheet of fabric was not only see-through but had to be at least designed for a toddler. I was pretty it wouldn’t go past my navel. “I can’t wear that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“My scars.”

“For the last time. He will not care about them; he’ll be too busy checking out the rest of you.”

“How do you know?” We had been arguing about what should I keep in my closet, what clothes should I wear with him in bed. She wanted to get rid of all my fuzzy pajamas, all my bright-colored underwear claiming that they weren’t sexy and made me look more like a child.

“You need to stop wearing a sports bra, the uni-boob is unflattering.”

This had been going on for two hours, telling me my style was outdated and that my husband expected more than soft cotton and jeans. Flannel was not for the bedroom and that I should try wearing a tong since heels were out of the question.

All of this was too overwhelming, why should I