My mother leaned in with that soft, pitying smile she used whenever she thought I was being stubborn instead of sensible.
“We want to see you settled, Miley,” she said. “We want to know you’ll have someone. A family. Children, maybe.”
I stared at both of them, stunned.
“So this is blackmail now?”
“It’s not blackmail,” my father said. “It’s motivation.”
I left before dessert.
For weeks, I ignored their calls. Every time my phone buzzed with their names, my jaw clenched. I replayed that dinner over and over in my head, trying to decide what infuriated me more — the ultimatum itself, or how calmly they delivered it, as though my life was a project they had every right to manage.
Then one evening, walking home from work, I saw him.
