My daughter Claire had been talking about her fiancé for months.
Every time she called, his name slipped into the conversation like a song she couldn’t stop humming.
“Mom, he’s perfect.”
That’s all I heard.
Perfect job. Perfect manners. Perfect smile.
At first, I tried to be happy for her without asking too many questions. Claire was 26, old enough to choose her own life and old enough to get annoyed when her mother poked too hard at its soft parts.
Still, I was her mother. Worry came with the title.