My mom was elegance personified. Not the flashy kind, but a quiet, enduring grace that seeped into everything she touched. After she was gone, a year ago now, her closet became a sanctuary. Each item a whisper of her. But nothing held more power, more bittersweet memory, than her silver anniversary shoes.
They were a masterpiece. Custom-made, Dad’s grand surprise for their twenty-fifth. Delicate, pearl-white satin, intricately beaded with tiny, shimmering crystals that caught the light like dew. A slender heel, a perfectly arched strap. She wore them only a handful of times, always for monumental occasions, always with that serene, knowing smile. To me, they weren’t just shoes. They were the embodiment of their love story, a tangible piece of her joy, her enduring partnership with my father. I’d carefully wrapped them in tissue, placed them back in their custom box, a sacred relic. A piece of her I could still hold onto.
Today was the one-year memorial lunch. The air in the reception hall was heavy with unsaid grief, forced smiles, and the clinking of cutlery. I clung to my Dad’s arm, both of us navigating the sympathy and the quiet sorrow. Every face was a reminder of her absence. How do you breathe when a piece of your soul is missing?
Nara is pictured with Rumble Honey Smith, seen in a post dated October 9, 2020 | Source: Instagram/naraaziza
Then she walked in. My Aunt. Dad’s younger sister. A woman Mom had always been incredibly close to, a confidante, a friend. Her entrance was, as always, a little dramatic, a little too loud. My gaze, weary from the day, drifted downwards as she air-kissed a cousin, then another. My breath caught. My heart stopped.
NO.
My eyes snapped back, focusing. It couldn’t be. It was just a trick of the light, a momentary lapse in my grief-fogged vision. But it wasn’t. The intricate beadwork on the toe. The specific, almost iridescent hue of the pearl-white satin. The delicate, perfectly arched strap that hugged the ankle. The way the heel tapered, so distinctly. Every single, minute detail… it was unmistakable.
She was wearing Mom’s shoes.
My stomach lurched. A cold wave of nausea washed over me. It’s impossible. I wrapped them myself. They’re in the back of Mom’s closet, in the special box. Panic, sharp and acrid, clawed at my throat. Did Aunt go into Mom’s things? Did she… take them? But why? And on this day, of all days? It felt like a desecration, a cruel, thoughtless act of disrespect.
I had to be sure. My legs felt like lead, but I pushed through the crowd, my eyes locked on those shoes, moving with every step my Aunt took. Was it a replica? A clever knock-off? But no. The way the crystals shimmered, the specific vintage lace detail embedded in the satin – no, these were not an imitation. These were them.
I found my Dad by the window, staring out, his shoulders slumped. I grabbed his arm, my voice a strangled whisper. “Dad. Mom’s silver anniversary shoes. Where are they?”
He flinched, startled by my urgency. He looked at me, then his eyes flickered nervously towards my Aunt, who was now laughing too loudly by the buffet table. He cleared his throat. “In her closet, honey. Where you put them.” His eyes avoided mine, drifting back to the window. An uncomfortable silence hung between us, thick and suffocating.
Rumble Honey Smith seen in a post dated October 9, 2020 | Source: Instagram/naraaziza
My resolve hardened. This was too much. I walked straight towards my Aunt, every step a hammer blow against the fragile peace I’d tried to construct for the day. My voice, when I spoke, was tight, barely audible above the general din. “Aunt,” I began, my gaze burning into the shoes on her feet. “Those shoes. Where did you get them?”
She looked down, following my line of sight. Her forced smile faltered. Her eyes, usually so vivacious, clouded over. She took a breath, looked at me, then a quick, almost imperceptible glance at my Dad across the room. He was watching us, his face pale, his jaw clenched. A silent conversation passed between them, a desperate plea from him, a conflicted defiance from her.
Then, she looked back at me, her expression hardening. Her voice, though still quiet, was laced with an unexpected steel. “These aren’t her shoes,” she said, her words slicing through the air like shards of glass. My mind reeled. What was she talking about? “These are my shoes.”
My blood ran cold. “What are you talking about? Those are Mom’s. I know those shoes. Dad gave them to her for their anniversary—”
She cut me off, her voice gaining strength, tinged with a bitterness I’d never heard before. “Your Dad had them custom-made. For me.” She gestured to the shoes, a mocking, tragic sweep of her hand. “He loved the design. So much so, he got her an identical pair a few weeks later. For their anniversary. Said it was a ‘perfect design for his two favourite women’.”
The words hung in the air, echoing. The chatter in the room faded into a distant hum. My vision blurred. My entire world tilted on its axis.
HIS TWO FAVOURITE WOMEN.
Rumble Honey and Slim Easy Smith, dated August 13, 2024 | Source: Instagram/naraaziza
The perfect love story. The silver anniversary. The shoes, a symbol of unwavering devotion. All of it a carefully constructed façade. A lie. Not just a lie, but a betrayal so deep, so entwined in the fabric of my parents’ lives, that it was represented by the very shoes I had revered as a relic of their happiness.
My mind raced, reeling from the impact. Dad and Aunt. How long? Was it a fling? Or a decades-long secret? The custom-made shoes. Identical. A secret, twisted symbol of a shared, forbidden love, worn openly by one of them at Mom’s own memorial. The sheer audacity. The cruelty.
I looked at my Dad, across the room, his face etched with shame, guilt, and a profound sadness. I looked at my Aunt, her defiant posture crumbling into quiet anguish. Then I looked back at the shoes.
My beautiful, elegant mother. Did she know? Did she live her life, cherished and adored, completely oblivious to this profound betrayal? Or did she know? Did that serene, knowing smile she wore when she donned those shoes hide a deeper pain, a quiet understanding of a shared, complicated truth? Did she live a lie, or was she just a part of one?
The shoes weren’t just shoes. They were a testament. A betrayal cast in pearl and satin. The truth, brought to light on a day meant to honor her memory, not shatter it. And I would never, ever look at anything the same way again. My mother’s grace, her joy, her very essence, irrevocably redefined by a pair of shoes.
