The metro was packed during rush hour, people rushing home. I stood, holding the overhead rail, trying to keep my balance as the train lurched forward. That’s when I felt a sharp tug on my purse. Before I could react, a man had yanked it from my shoulder and was pushing his way toward the doors.
“Hey! Stop him!” I shouted, but no one moved.
No one, except Brian.
He appeared out of nowhere, charging past startled passengers. The doors opened at the next stop, and both men tumbled onto the platform. I pressed my face against the window, watching in horror as they wrestled on the ground.
By some miracle, I squeezed through the closing doors. When I reached the platform, the thief had fled, but Brian sat on the ground, holding my purse triumphantly in his hands, a small cut above his eyebrow bleeding.
“Your book recommendation service is very dramatic,” I said, helping him up.
He laughed, handing me my purse. “I still owe you a copy of Gatsby.”
We went for coffee to clean up his cut. One coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into him walking me home. Walking me home turned into a kiss at my doorstep that left me weak in the knees.
Six months later, we were madly in love. But my mother, Juliette, never liked him.
“A librarian, Eliza? Really?” she grimaced when I first told her about Brian. “What kind of future can he provide?”
“The kind filled with books and happiness,” I shot back.
She rolled her eyes. “Happiness doesn’t pay the bills, darling.”
My family was upper-middle class, but my mother always tried to present us as wealthier than we were. She name-dropped at dinner parties, exaggerated our vacations, and curated our lives to seem more luxurious.
When Brian proposed with a simple but beautiful sapphire ring, I was overjoyed.
“It reminded me of your eyes,” he said.
“That’s it?” My mother hissed when I showed her the ring. “Not even a full carat?”
“Mom, I love it,” I insisted. “It’s perfect.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, I suppose it can be upgraded later.”
