The first dinner with Brian and my family was a disaster.
My mother wore her most expensive jewelry and kept talking about her “dear friend” who owned a yacht in Monaco, a person I’m sure didn’t exist.
Brian, to his credit, was unfailingly polite. He complimented our home, asked thoughtful questions about Mom’s charity work, and even brought an expensive bottle of wine that my father, Clark, appreciated.
“Where did you find this?” Dad asked, examining the label with interest.
“A small vineyard in Napa,” Brian replied. “The owner is an old family friend.”
My mother snorted. “Family friends with vineyard owners? How convenient.”
“Mom, please…” I warned.
Dad shot her a look. “Juliette, enough.”
She simply sipped her wine, her disapproval hanging thick in the air.
Later that night, Dad pulled me aside. “I like him, Eliza. He’s got substance.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Your mother will come around,” he assured me, though his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Just give her time.”
“I don’t care if she does,” I replied, watching Brian help clear the dishes despite my mother’s protests. “I’m marrying him either way.”
The months leading up to our wedding were tense. Mom made snide remarks at every planning session, questioning Brian’s family’s absence.
“They’re very private people,” I explained.
She mocked his career choice. “Books are dying, you know!”
