She smiled at that, but it was a careful smile, the kind people use when they’ve decided they might like you but haven’t finished evaluating you. David’s father was easier. Robert was tall, affable, and talked too much about golf, but he seemed genuinely glad his son had brought someone home. At one point during dinner he pulled me aside and asked, with what felt like real curiosity, what my nonprofit actually did every day. When I explained, he nodded and said, “That’s good work. That’s really good work.” I believed him. At the end of the evening, as David and I were getting ready to leave, Constance hugged me and said, “We’ll have to do this again soon and get to know each other properly.” In the car, David squeezed my hand and said, “See? That wasn’t so bad.” And I said no, it wasn’t bad at all. The second time I visited, Constance asked about my family. We were sitting in their living room, a room clearly designed for display more than use, with furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable arranged around a fireplace I never once saw lit. Robert was in his study on a phone call. David had gone into the kitchen to get drinks. It was just Constance and me again, and once more she was watching me with that same careful attention.
“David says your mother was an immigrant.”
“That’s right.”
“From where?”
“Poland. She came over in the eighties.”
Constance nodded slowly.
“And your father?”
“He died when I was young. I don’t really remember him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. So it was just the two of you.”
“Just the two of us.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“We managed.”
“And what does your mother do? David mentioned she works at a hospital.”
“She’s a patient care technician. Has been for almost thirty years.”
Constance’s eyebrows lifted just slightly.
“That’s a very demanding job.”
“She likes it.”
“I’m sure she does.”
She lifted her wine glass.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The opportunities this country offers. Someone can come here with nothing and build a whole life.”
I said nothing. I was trying to decide whether she meant it as admiration or as a story she liked telling herself about other people. David came back before I had to answer, and her face changed again. Softer. Warmer. The moment passed. That night, in bed, I told David about the conversation. He was half asleep, his face buried in the pillow.
“She’s just old-fashioned,” he mumbled. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I didn’t say she meant anything by it.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
I wasn’t sure. I turned off the lamp and lay there listening to David’s breathing level out. Maybe I was borrowing trouble, the way my mother always told me not to. Maybe I was looking for shadows where there weren’t any. So I let it go. We got engaged eight months later. David proposed in the park near my apartment on a Sunday morning in October while the leaves were turning. I said yes before he finished the question. Wedding planning started almost immediately, and that was when things became complicated. Constance wanted to be involved, and by involved, I mean omnipresent. She had opinions about the venue. Too rustic. The flowers. Lilies are funeral flowers. The guest list. Surely we could make room for the Hendersons. They’ve known our family for years. The bridesmaid dresses. That color washes everyone out. The cake. Buttercream is so heavy. The font on the invitations. Too modern. We are not sending flyers. David tried to play mediator, which mostly meant he agreed with his mother and then apologized to me later. I kept my own mother out of the process as much as I could. She wasn’t the type to care about centerpieces or linen colors anyway. When I told her David and I were engaged, she hugged me and said, “Good. He seems like a decent person.” That was her highest praise. She had met him four times by then, and he had passed whatever private tests she used to measure men. He helped clear the table without being asked. He didn’t interrupt people. He noticed when her coffee cup was empty and offered to refill it. These were the things that mattered to her. But Constance had very specific ideas about how much my mother should be involved in the wedding, which is to say, as little as possible.
“The mother of the bride traditionally handles the rehearsal dinner,” Constance explained to me over lunch one afternoon at a French bistro with no prices on the menu, the kind of place she chose because it let her pretend not to care what anything cost. “But since your mother is, well, I’m sure she’s very busy with work, Robert and I can just take care of it ourselves.”
“She already offered to help pay for part of it.”
Constance’s lips pressed together.
“That’s very generous, but these things can get complicated. Different visions. Different expectations. It may just be easier if Robert and I handle the whole affair.”
“My mother has expectations too.”
