“You’re making this weird, Mom,” she said. “You don’t get to drag your teenage breakup into my relationship.”
Dinner was tense and shallow. After that, his name turned every conversation into a fight.
“I’m worried,” I’d say.
“You’re controlling,” she’d say.
“The age gap plus the history—”
“Is your issue,” she’d cut in. “Not mine.”
About a year later, she showed up at my house, eyes bright, hand trembling.
She held it out. A big diamond.
“Mom, I love Mark,” she said. “He proposed. We’re getting married in three months. Accept it, or we cut all ties.”
My chest went cold.
“You’d cut me out?” I asked.
