The real confrontation, she realized, had not yet begun.
Twenty years earlier, the woman in the champagne-colored dress had been a little girl sitting at a cramped kitchen table while her mother repaired evening gowns for wealthy clients.
Their apartment stood above a small grocery store in a neighborhood that had once been vibrant but was slowly losing its businesses.
Her mother worked as a seamstress.
She was exceptionally skilled.
She could repair intricate beadwork, reshape expensive dresses, and rescue garments that other tailors considered ruined.
Women with money sometimes arrived carrying dresses worth thousands of dollars.
They spoke loudly into phones, complained about small imperfections, and occasionally treated the woman doing the work as though she were invisible.
The little girl noticed.
One evening, after a customer left without saying thank you, she asked her mother why she tolerated it.
Her mother continued threading a needle.
"Tolerate what?"
"The way she talked to you."
Her mother smiled.
"People reveal themselves when they think you can't do anything for them."
"But she needs you to fix her dress."
"Exactly."
The girl frowned.
"Then why does she act like she's better than you?"
Her mother looked up.
"Because some people confuse what they can buy with what they are."
The child considered that.
"Are they different?"
"Very."
Her mother returned to her sewing.
"Money can buy a beautiful dress. It cannot buy good character."
The girl looked toward a row of garments hanging beside the wall.