So here’s how the last Sunday dinner went down. I brought my fiancée, Mallory, over to meet my parents officially.
She’s tall, broad-shouldered, platinum blonde, and yeah—she’s not a size two.
But Mallory’s the warmest, sharpest, most loyal person I’ve ever met.
She lights up every room she walks into, even if she doesn’t fit into whatever narrow box people expect.
My mom barely smiled when she hugged her. My dad wouldn’t even look her in the eye. The whole meal felt like sitting on top of a powder keg.
Then, as soon as Mallory stepped out to take a call, my mom leaned in like she couldn’t wait. She said, dead serious, “Honey… you sure you want to marry someone that big? You’re a small guy. It’s not a good match.”
My dad chimed in, talking about “health” and how I’d “resent it later.”
I felt like the table flipped upside down. I couldn’t even process it at first. I just stared at them, thinking about how Mallory always cooks for me when I’m stressed, how she pays attention to every little thing I like, how she’s the first person I’ve ever felt completely safe with.
