“What you say this was again?”

“It’s Chanel,” I replied. “A Chanel jacket. Chanel is a designer.”

“The skirt, too?”

“No,” Dru jumped in. “Someone donated that from Macy’s, but it’s really cute. You look amazing.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Dru and I laughed, but Tyesha didn’t. She faced me with wide eyes. “I ain’t never had no designer jacket before,” she said, her tone sincere as she fingered the tweed.

“It’s ‘I’ve never had’,” I corrected her again. “And this is just the first of many designer jackets I’m sure you’ll own.” Taking another step back, I said, “Tyesha, Dru is right; you look amazing. You’re going to be one of the stars at the job fair.”

Five girls from the Dress for Success program were in my home, choosing outfits from donations that had been made by and to the First Ladies Council. While we worked with high school students, we had a special program for children who were about to age out of the foster care system. States were supposed to assist these children during their transition from foster care to independence, but because oftentimes that assistance was lacking, our goal was to provide these children with hands-on help and connections that would continue for as long as they needed us.

“Tell Jean to give me five then come in,” I told Tyesha as I headed back to the rack of skirts, dresses and suits. The girls were hanging out in the family room, watching television and talking as I helped each pick out the outfit she’d wear to the job fair at the convention center tomorrow.

“Okay, I’ll tell her. But umm, I have a question.”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

She glanced at Dru before she asked me, “How long can I keep this?”

“It’s yours, I told you that,” I said. “You can keep it until you get tired of wearing it.”

“Wow,” she exclaimed. She hesitated for a moment, then rushed to me, throwing her arms around my neck. “Thank you so much. I’ve never had anything this nice. I feel....” When she paused, I wasn’t sure if she’d done that because she couldn’t think of a word or because she didn’t feel worthy to say the word that came to her mind.

I had a feeling it was the latter and that made me sad. Tyesha was a gorgeous girl with large doe eyes, deep dimples and natural curly brown hair that swooped a bit past her shoulders. With her slender, but curvy shape, she could have been modeling for Chanel if she were a couple of inches taller and born into a different zip code.

But a lifetime in the foster care system where she’d been in more than a dozen homes, left Tyesha, like most of the girls I’d met, unattached, unloved, and washed in low self-esteem.

I cupped her cheeks inside the palms of my hands. “This makes you feel beautiful, right?”

Tears sprang to her eyes when she nodded.

From the other side of the room, Dru added, “And gorgeous.”