My daughter spent years avoiding dates and photographs because of the birthmark on her face. So when she brought home the man she planned to marry, I watched him closely.
Dinner went perfectly until Marissa left the room.
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Then Graham leaned toward me and mentioned a deal I knew nothing about.
“Mom, those are the fancy plates.”
I looked down at the china in my hands.
“Yes.”
“We’re eating lasagna.”
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“I know, dear.”
Marissa stared at me from the kitchen doorway.
“Mari, your mother has been rearranging those plates for 20 minutes,” Henry said from my phone, where I had him on speaker. “Don’t interfere with the process.”
I glared at the screen.
“You were supposed to be here.”
“I know.”
Henry sounded genuinely miserable.
His work trip had run one day longer than expected, which meant the man my daughter intended to marry
