The blue dress hung on the back of the bathroom door, the linen fabric catching the light from the vanity bulbs. It looked simple enough, just a shift of fabric dyed the color of a deep sky, but it felt heavy with expectation. This was the armor for the day. Not the structured blazer I wore for foundation meetings, not the casual clothes I wore for school runs. This was the dress for the public. The author. The advocate. The woman who had written about safety while her own safety was being questioned online.
I stood in front of the mirror, applying a layer of mascara. My hands were steady, which surprised me. I had expected them to shake. I had expected the adrenaline to make me clumsy. But the week of preparation had done its work. The security protocols were set. The statement about the
