She approached the first bag with the wariness of someone defusing a bomb. Her mother's fashion choices had historically run toward the dramatic, the attention-grabbing, the look-at-me-I'm-fabulous. Not exactly ideal for someone who needed to blend into the background while managing a hundred moving pieces.
She unzipped the first bag.
"Oh, no." The words slipped out before she could stop them.
It was red. Aggressively, blindingly, look-at-my-cleavage red. The neckline plunged to somewhere around the navel, and the skirt was so short it might qualify as a suggestion rather than actual clothing.
"I thought it would make a statement!" Daisy said defensively.
"The statement being 'I've decided to become a Vegas showgirl'?" She zipped the bag closed with slightly more force than necessary. "Mom, I'm chairing a family festival. There will be children present."
"Fine, fine. Try the next one."
The second bag revealed something equally unsuitable, though in the opposite direction—a voluminous concoction of ruffles and bows in what could only be described as aggressive pink. It looked like a baby shower had exploded onto fabric form,complete with a massive bow at the waist that would make sitting down physically impossible.
"This is…" She searched for diplomatic words. "Very… emphatic."
"I thought it was cheerful!"
"It's giving 'deranged bridesmaid at a princess-themed wedding.'" She closed that bag too, trying not to notice the way Daisy's face fell. "I'm sorry, I know you're trying, but these just aren't?—"
"Open the last one."
Something in her mother's voice made her pause. Quieter than usual. Hopeful in a way that felt fragile.
She reached for the third bag.
The fabric that spilled out was burgundy—soft, flowing, the exact shade of the pinot noir that Thallos made. The dress itself was simple: a fitted bodice with a soft cowl neckline, a skirt that would fall to her calves, and a subtle shimmer in the fabric that caught the light without screaming for attention.
It was beautiful.
More than that—it was her.
"I saw it and I thought of the vineyard," Daisy said, her voice uncharacteristically small. "And the way you always pick flowers that match the seasons, and how you never want to be the center of attention but you deserve to be seen anyway. I thought…" She twisted her hands together, a gesture she had never seen her make. "I thought maybe this time I could get it right."
Her throat tightened. How many years had she wished for this? For her mother to actually see her, not as an extension of herself or a supporting character in her drama, but as a separate person with her own tastes and dreams and quiet ways of being?
"Mom." The word came out rough. "It's perfect."
"Really?" Daisy's face lit up, decades younger suddenly. "You're not just saying that?"
"Look at me." She held up the dress, the fabric whispering against her fingers. "When have I ever just said things to make you feel better?"
"Never." A laugh bubbled up, slightly watery. "You've always been the honest one. Sometimes brutally so."
"I learned it from you. Just… inverted."
They stared at each other across the small living room, morning light filtering through the windows, dust motes dancing between them. So much history in the space between them. So much hurt and disappointment and love that never quite fit right.
But maybe that was the thing about family. Maybe it didn't have to be perfect to be real.
"Thank you," she said. "Really. This means—it means a lot."
Daisy crossed the room and pulled her into a hug—genuine, for once, without the theatrical flourish or the underlying agenda. Just a mother holding her daughter.
"I know I've messed up," Daisy murmured against her hair. "More times than I can count. But I'm proud of you, Marigold. The shop, the festival, that gorgeous satyr who looks at you likeyou hung the moon—you've built something wonderful here. Something that's yours."
"I had a good motivation." She pulled back, swiping at her eyes. "Someone had to be the responsible one."
