My fiancé’s parents thought I was poor and shy—then they slid me a contract at Christmas, and the second I asked one question, Daniel went pale.
The folder came across the Christmas table so gently it barely made a sound. Daniel’s mother used two fingers to slide it between the dish of candied yams and the basket of warm dinner rolls, as if she were offering me something gracious instead of calculated. The tree in the corner blinked red, then gold,…
