Dates, sleepovers, moving in. One night, he proposed in our tiny kitchen between the trash can and the stove. I was in pajama shorts and an old T-shirt.
He held out a ring with shaking hands and said, “I know this isn’t fancy, but I want every version of you for the rest of my life.”
The problem was never Alex.
The problem was his mother, Elaine.
Elaine is the kind of woman who always looks like she’s hosting a charity gala.
Pearl earrings, perfect blowout, soft voice that sounds gentle until you listen to the actual words.
From day one, she hated that I’m “just” a waitress.
The first time we met, she smiled and said, “Oh, you work in a restaurant. How… practical. Some people settle for small jobs, dear.
Nothing wrong with that, as long as they know their limits.”
I felt my cheeks burn. Alex squeezed my hand under the table.
