“This,” my mother says icily, “is for my daughter.” The saleswoman falters, her eyes switching to me, before taking a long sweep of my body. She blinks a few times. “Oh!” she says, nervously. Her cheeks pink. “Silly me. I didn’t think we stocked that in her size.” “What?” my mom says. Her voice is subzero. The saleswoman’s color drains faster than I can mutter Oh shit under my breath, because I might be a mama bear, but I learned it from the best, and I’ve got nothing on her. The sight of Elin Bergman provoked when she sees one of her children threatened scares me, and I’m the one she’s
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