Go shopping with her

The next morning, you drive downtown to the nicest dress shop in the city, the kind with a single, frosted-glass door and a woman inside who looks like she judges people for a living. You take a deep breath, push the door open, and march in like you own the place. You tell the woman, whose name is Claire and has impossibly sharp cheekbones, to bring out the best. No price limit. For your wife.

Ava stands frozen amidst a forest of silk and satin, looking utterly out of place in her jeans and simple blouse. But Claire, the intimidating woman, sees the raw material. She tuts and murmurs, pulling dresses with a knowing flick of her wrist.

You sip the champagne Claire offers you, the bubbles fizzing on your tongue, and you watch. It's like watching an artist at work. Ava disappears into a curtained changing room, and a few moments later, she emerges, shyly, in a simple black sheath. It's nice. It's safe.

"It's okay," she says, looking at her reflection. "It's flattering."

"It's not the one," you say, before Claire can even speak. You catch her eye and give a tiny shake of your head.

Then, a vision in sapphire blue. The dress has a halter neck that plunges into a deep V at the back, showcasing the graceful line of her spine. The fabric skims her hips and flares at the knees. It's not just a dress. It's an announcement.

Ava looks at herself in the three-paneled mirror, and her hand goes to her throat. "Oh," she whispers. "I couldn't."

"That," Claire says, her voice a purr of satisfaction, "is not a dress. That's a statement."

"You're right," you say, standing up and walking over to her. Your reflection joins hers in the mirror, your hands on her shoulders. "It is the one. It's you." You lean down and whisper in her ear, "It's telling everyone you're not just somebody's wife, or somebody's mother. You're the main event. No woman could ever compare to your beauty."

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