Our Story

The Night Everything Changed

It was May 1996. I was sitting in my kitchen, staring at the empty chair where my mother used to sit before Alzheimer's took her from me. For two years, I'd watched her fade. For two years, I'd been "the caregiver," "the dutiful daughter," "the strong one."

I was 42 years old, and I'd forgotten who Carol was.

That same night, my phone rang. It was Margaret.

"I signed the papers today," she said quietly. "Twenty-one years. Over."

Margaret had just finalized her divorce. She was 40, suddenly single, trying to figure out how to support her 2-year-old daughter alone. She was terrified.

We'd been friends for nine years—carpool buddies, PTA volunteers, the moms who always showed up. But that night, over cheap wine and too many tears, we became something more.

"What if we stopped living for everyone else?" Margaret said.

I laughed. "And do what? We're middle-aged women with no plan."

"Exactly," she said. "So what do we have to lose?"

The Leap

We'd both spent decades dressing for other people. Professional clothes for parent-teacher conferences. Comfortable clothes for hospital shifts. Practical clothes for caregiving. We'd become invisible somewhere along the way—not to others, but to ourselves.

"What if we opened a boutique?" I said it like a joke.

Margaret didn't laugh. "What if we did?"

We had no business experience. No fashion background. Just my teacher's pension and her divorce settlement. Just two exhausted women who were tired of being tired.

In June 1996, we signed a lease on a tiny storefront at 524 Market Street in downtown Wilmington. We were terrified. Our families thought we'd lost our minds. ("You're giving up your teaching pension? At 42?")

But something inside us whispered: If not now, when?

The Early Years

Our first year was chaos. We didn't know how to buy inventory. We didn't understand margins or markups. One month, we made $300 profit and cried with joy. The next month, we made nothing and cried from fear.

But something unexpected happened.

Women started coming in—not just to shop, but to talk. They'd try on a blazer and tell us about the job interview they were terrified of. They'd buy a dress and confess they hadn't felt beautiful in years. They'd linger by the register and whisper, "I thought I was the only one who felt invisible."

We realized we weren't just selling clothes. We were creating a space where women could remember who they were before life told them who they should be.

The Struggle

Let's be honest: we almost didn't make it.

In 2002, we couldn't make rent and Margaret's ex-husband had to loan us money. (The irony wasn't lost on us.) In 2008, the recession nearly killed us—three months in a row with almost no sales.

There were nights we sat in the empty store and said, "Maybe everyone was right. Maybe we were crazy."

But then a customer would come in and say, "I drove two hours to get here because my friend told me you'd understand." Or we'd get a handwritten note: "That dress you helped me pick? I wore it to my first date in 15 years. Thank you."

And we'd look at each other and think: We can't quit. Not yet.

The Turning Point

In March 2020, we had to close our doors. COVID-19 shut down everything, and after 24 years, we thought: This is it. This is how it ends.

Margaret's daughter Sarah called me, panicking. "Mom, you have to go online. You have to try."

We were 66 and 64 years old. We didn't know how to take product photos. We'd never shipped an order. Instagram confused us.

But Sarah sat with us in my living room and said, "Mom, Aunt Carol—you've been helping women for 24 years. They need you now more than ever."

So we learned. We posted shaky iPhone videos showing new arrivals. We packed orders at my kitchen table. (Jim, my husband, became our unofficial shipping manager—a role he still holds today.)

And something beautiful happened: our longtime customers showed up. They ordered online. They left comments. They told their friends. Women we'd never met started finding us, saying things like, "I needed to support real people, not corporations."

By the end of 2020, we'd made more revenue online than we ever had in our physical store.

Where We Are Now

It's 2025. We're 71 and 69 years old. We still pack orders every Thursday night with wine and laughter. (Some traditions are sacred.) Jim still helps us ship. Sarah still teaches us how Instagram works. (We're getting better. Slowly.)

We downsized our physical storefront and now work primarily online, which means we can serve women across the country—not just Wilmington. We've been trusted by over 27,000 customers. That number still takes our breath away.

But here's what we want you to know:

We're not a corporation. We're not a warehouse. We're Carol and Margaret—two women who took a terrifying leap in 1996 and somehow, miraculously, landed on our feet.

Every order you place, we see. Every kind review, we read. Every time you share your story with us—about the empty nest, the divorce, the career change, the moment you looked in the mirror and didn't recognize yourself—we understand.

Because we've been there.

Why We're Still Here

People ask us when we'll retire. The answer? We don't know.

What we do know is this: as long as there are women who feel invisible, we'll be here reminding them they're not. As long as there are women wondering if it's "too late," we'll be here proving it's not.

We're not just selling clothes. We're celebrating second acts. Third acts. However many acts it takes.

Because if two scared, grief-stricken, middle-aged women could build something beautiful out of nothing, then anything is possible.

And if you're reading this thinking, "Maybe it's not too late for me either"—

You're exactly right.

It's not.

With deep gratitude for 29 years,

Carol & Margaret

Wilmington, North Carolina

Est. 1996

P.S. Margaret's daughter Sarah—the 2-year-old she was raising alone in 1996—is now 31, married, and just had her first baby. Carol's mother, Dorothy, would have been 102 this year. We like to think she'd be proud. Jim still complains about the packing tape, but he shows up every Thursday. Some things change. Some things stay beautifully the same. ❤️