“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 shaking.
“You’d cut me out?”
She held it out. Big diamond.
“Mom, I love Mark,” she said. “He proposed. We’re getting married in three months. Accept it, or we cut all ties.”
