Does it matter that I'm fatter?

8- The dress

I nearly shot fist pumps right through the roof when Katy called and asked me to come in on Saturday. Ridha asked dad if he could come over on Friday evening. Dad didn't even ask me about it. Then Saturday morning I get the call and I just about die of relief. Ridha doesn't ask about Sunday because he's got to visit family that he hasn't seen since he came back. I work again on Monday and come home a bit tired from all the standing and talking at work. I shake my head a little when I remember how this one guy started flirting with me at the till and I nearly shoved my engagement ring in his face, where has all the shame gone? Mom's busy making supper when I greet. She wants to know if I'm working tomorrow and I say no. 'Great we can go get the dress' is what she says while I'm walking down the passage. I sigh. There's a noise coming from Fatimah's room and I almost immediately know she's listening to a lecture. She's really obsessed. I walk into her room and slump down next to her on the bed. 'Hey' she says still focusing on Nouman Ali Khan on her laptop. My head rests on the pillow beside her and I yawn while closing my eyes. Ustadth Nouman's talking about how we should stop thinking about everything that's not right in our composition. He's saying how Allah says He created us perfectly and that should be enough of a reason for us to stop being so ungrateful with how we look. I don't really want to hear this because I can't deal with how fat I am, because I'm supposed to be thin, because I know what beautiful people look like and it's not fat, because every word he said is true but it's not the kind of words most people choose to believe.

On Tuesday morning mom and I leave after everyone else has left the house. I put on one of mom's thobes because the one I was wearing just tore at the seem on the side. Mom wants to know if I want to go for breakfast but I profusely decline. I'm too scared the dress won't even fit over my empty stomach. I need room in my stomach for suction. Lilly, the dressmaker, just finished studying the year before last. She's just over twenty and my mom had a hard time explaining to her why my wedding dress had to cover almost every inch of my skin. She was really shocked by the whole idea and couldn't help looking at me with pity. She realised though that she was only the dressmaker and was ready for for the challenge to make me look beautiful even without the help of some exposed skin. She took my measurements almost 6 weeks ago and I can't help making a silent prayer to Allah, I'm not even sure for what, all I know is I need a miracle only He can give me. After all the 'hi how are you(s)', Lilly shows me the dress and it leaves me speechless. With my eyes lost in its pastel beige hue and beaded detail, I start to cry. like really cry. I cry because I love my hijab but not even I could fathom having a stunning dress that lives this much up to hijab standards. I cry because all of a sudden the dress looks way too small and I don't want to ruin all the effort Lilly's put into the dress. I cry because I don't deserve a nice dress, look at me, I don't deserve it. Mom tries to explain to Lilly that I'm a bit overwhelmed with happiness and Lilly shakes her head to say it's no problem because her eyes are misty as well. Go on they tell me. Go fit it on. I calm myself down and pull the mannequin wearing my dress into the dressing room. I gain a bit of hope when my arms slip in with ease. I wipe away my tears and walk out towards my mom so she can zip up my back. she starts zipping it up real easy and I almost think that I can breathe out in relief, but then she tugs and she tugs and I suck in as much as I can and the zipper doesn't budge. the bloody zipper can't hold all the fat in my life together.
"Just stop." I beg of my mom.
"It's not going to move okay." I whisper even though she already let go, "it's not going to change."