My eyelids fluttered like moths’ wings. “I…” But I didn’t know what to say. I kneaded the hem of my shirt with my fingers, pulling it as far down as I could. This only stretched the low neck farther down, and I released it, my face flushing.

Finally my father called for my mother. There were long moments of a silence so thick it held sparks. My mother arrived at the door and kissed me on both cheeks. “You made it,” she said, “we didn’t know if you would.” She squeezed the back of my arm in a gesture that could have held warmth or anger, I couldn’t tell. I wondered if she could smell the alcohol on me, if she knew I was drunk; but they were probably at least a little drunk, too.

“I made it,” I said.

My father whispered something into her ear and she looked me up and down. I stared at her, imploring her to chide him, to tell him I was a grown woman and could wear what I wanted. I begged her to tell him to look at me, I was young and beautiful and could pull off any sort of thing. She moved toward me, put her hand on my back, and I leaned into it, ready for her to rub her hand in circles, to soothe me.

“Do you want to borrow something?” she whispered.

I straightened my back away from her hand like I’d been branded. That I had leaned into it moments earlier, looking for an ally, made clear that I was a fool. I was ashamed, I felt exposed and whorish and was desperate to cover myself. I would rather be wearing anything than this dress—a sack, a trash bag. I deserved it.

The dining room table was abandoned, strewn with chocolate-streaked dessert plates and stained wine glasses, murmurs of conversation emanating from the living room, where the last members of the dinner party always migrated for nightcaps. No one had seen me yet, and this was a small mercy. I didn’t know who was still here, but I could hardly think about that right now. I needed to change my clothes, it was urgent, imperative. In my mother’s closet, I wanted to sink underneath the dresses and curl into a ball, hug my knees to my chest. I should have known this outfit would make my father uncomfortable. Had I worn it particularly to provoke him? Had I purposefully left my jacket unzipped? I had meant to air myself out, I had thought, but perhaps that was only a cover for my brazen disrespect. My mother’s email from this morning flashed into my mind: “You could wear the black pants.” She had given me explicit instructions, she had told me exactly how to behave, and if I had obeyed her, this would not be happening. I had not listened. I had failed.