Dear Diary,
This afternoon, returning to my fourth-floor flat, I overheard Doris Evans and Gladys Thornton whispering near the bins. “Just look at her airs and graces!” Doris flung her scrubbing brush into the bucket, sloshing soapy water everywhere. “Like the Queen herself! And that dress… Lord, the money some people waste
Stepping into the cool silk slipping over her shoulders the next evening, I traced my reflection – tiredness replaced by sharp elegance that felt like my core truth, and, lifting the deep green coat over my shoulders, raised my chin and walked out to meet my old classmates, relishing my decision, nodding decisively.