Chapter 15: The Effort

The next morning, at Dean’s parents' house is quiet except for the soft clinking of dishes in the kitchen. Jasmine is standing at the counter, pouring herself a cup of tea, when she hears footsteps behind her. She turns, expecting Dean, but instead, it’s Margaret. For a split second, Jasmine straightens, instinctively bracing herself. Old habits don’t disappear overnight. Margaret notices. And she pauses, giving Jasmine a small, tentative smile.

“Good Morning,”

“Morning,” I said to her, polite but cautious.

Margaret steps closer, but not too close-just enough to show she’s trying.

“I, um… I was wondering if you’d like to sit with me for a bit. Maybe talk.”

I studied for a moment, searching for any hint of the old sharpness. But all I see is sincerity and nerves. That alone surprises her.

“Sure,” I say softly. “I can do that.”

They sit at the small breakfast table, sunlight spilling across the wood.

Margaret folds her hands, takes a breath, and begins.

“I know apologies don’t fix anything,” she says. “And I know I have a lot to make up for. But I want to try. Not just with words…but with actions.”

I nod, waiting. Margaret hesitates, then laughs quietly at herself. “This is harder than I thought. I’m not used to…admitting when I’m wrong.”

“That makes two of us,” I say gently, and the tension breaks just a little.

Margaret’s shoulders relax, “I want to get to know you. The real you. Not the version I made up in my head.”

My eyes soften. “I’d like that.”

There’s a beat of silence before Margaret continues, more vulnerable now.

“Dean cares about you deeply. I see that. And…I want to understand the woman who makes my son look at someone the way he looks at you.”

I blush at her words, which caught me off guard. “He’s…he’s good to me.”

“He loves you,” Margaret says simply. “And I want to love the people he loves. I want to be better at that.”

I take a breath, letting the words settle. “I’m willing to start fresh. But I need honesty. And respect. And…patience.”

“You’ll have all three,” Margaret promises. “And if I slip, you can call me out on it.”

I smiled at her a small, but real smile. “Deal.”

Margaret brightens, relief washing over her. “Good. Because I was thinking…maybe you and I could do something together this week. Just us. Nothing fancy. Maybe lunch? Or a walk? Or….” she hesitates, then adds, “You could come by the boutique. I’d love to show you around. Only if you want to.”

My eyes widen slightly. That offer means more than Margaret realizes. “I’d like that,” I say to her.

“Really?” she asks me, and I nod at her response. Margaret exhales, a genuine smile blooming across her face. “Then it’s settled. I can’t wait.”

For the first time, the space between them feels open, like a bridge is finally being built instead of burned. And from the hallway, unseen, Dean watches them with a quiet smile of his own, knowing this moment is the beginning of something he’d almost stopped hoping for.

Then the following week, I arrived at Margaret's boutique and as I walked through the door, the bell above the boutique door gave a soft chime as Jasmine stepped inside, and immediately she was wrapped in a world of soft light and silk. The space smells faintly of lavender and new fabric-clean, elegant, intentional. Mannequins stand in gentle poses along the walls, each draped in gowns that look like they were sewn with stories instead of thread.

Margaret is already there, as the owner that she is was adjusting a lace sleeve on a display dress. She turns when she hears me enter, and her face brightens with a warmth that feels new, but genuine.

“You made it,” Margaret says, smoothing her hands over her apron.

“I did,” I reply, taking in the room. “It’s beautiful in here.”

“Thank you,” Margaret says, and there’s a quiet pride in her voice. “This place…it’s my heart. I built it from nothing. Every stitch, every appointment, every bride who has walked out of here glowing, it all means something to me.”

I nod, stepping closer. “I can tell.”

Margaret gestures towards the back. “Come on. Let me show you around.”

They walk through the boutique together, Margaret pointing out small details- fabric samples she handpicked from Italy, a vintage sewing machine she refuses to get rid of, the framed photos of brides she’s helped over the years. I listen to her, genuinely interested, and Margaret seems to relax more with every step that we take together.

When we reach the fitting room area, Margaret pauses. “This is where the magic happens,” she says softly. “Where women come in nervous, unsure, sometimes even scared…and leave feeling like the best version of themselves.”

I smile at her words. “That must feel amazing.”

“It does,” Margaret admits. “But it also comes with pressure. Expectations. And sometimes…fear.”

I tilt my head. “Fear?”

Margaret exhales, leaning lightly against the fitting chair. “I’ve spent so long protecting what I built. Protecting my family. Sometimes I confuse protecting with controlling.” She looks at me, with her eyes softening. “That’s what happened with you. I thought I was shielding Dean from something that wasn’t real. But the truth is…I was shielding myself from change.”

I take a slow breath, letting the honesty settle. “Change can be scary,” I say gently. “But it can also be good.”

Margaret nods. “I’m learning that.”

There’s a quiet moment between them, comfortable, not strained.

Then Margaret brightens slightly. “Would you like to try something?” she asks.

I blink. “Like…a dress?”

Margaret laughed softly. “Not unless you want to. I was thinking of something simpler.” She walks to a rack and pulls out a bolt of soft, champagne-colored fabric. “This is one of my favorites. I use it for brides who want something understated but unforgettable.”

She places the fabric in my hands. It’s smooth, cool… almost weightless.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

“It reminds me of you,” Margaret says before she can stop herself.

I look up, surprised.

Margaret clears her throat, a little embarrassed but not taking it back. “You have this... quiet elegance. You don’t force yourself into a room. You just…belong in it.”

My eyes soften. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Margaret smiles, small but real. “I meant it.”

They stand there for a moment, the fabric draped between them like a bridge.

Then Margaret gestures toward a small seating area. “Come sit with me. I want to hear about you. Not just what happened recently…but who you are. What you love. What you dream about.”

I hesitate only for a second before nodding. “Okay. I’d like that.”

They sit, and for the first time, the conversation flows easily-about my writing, my childhood, my favourite colors, the things that scare me, and the things that make me feel alive. Margaret listens, really listens, and I feel something inside me loosen. This is the first time I’ve seen Margaret truly engage with what I’m saying and genuinely understand my perspective in regard to learning more about me and my life. With each revelation I share with her, I sense the formidable walls I've constructed over the years beginning to dissolve. It's as if each barrier, once solid and unyielding, is crumbling away in mere moments as I invite Margaret deeper into my heart. The fragile remnants of my defenses fall away, revealing vulnerabilities I had long kept hidden, and in this unfolding intimacy, I discover a warmth that fills the spaces once reserved for solitude. By the time they leave the boutique, the air between them is different. Softer. Warmer. Like the first stitch in a new seam, small, but strong enough to hold.