I carried the dishes to the kitchen so I could escape the tension at the table, even if only for a few minutes.
But Dad followed me.
"He's very quiet."
"Julie, a word."
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I braced myself.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.
"So this boy… Where is his mother?"
"She left when he was little."
My father raised his eyebrows.
"She left when he was little."
"Left?"
"She walked out when he was a toddler. He barely remembers her. Just that she stopped coming back."
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"And the father just… raised him alone?"
"Yes."
My father shook his head slowly. "That's not natural."
"He barely remembers her. Just that she stopped coming back."
I counted to ten in my head.
"But where's the mother now?" he pressed.
"She died a few years ago, before I met Thomas. Car accident."
That seemed to satisfy something in him, though not in a good way. Like it confirmed whatever theory he'd already built in his mind.
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"But where's the mother now?"
"So now you're playing house with a widower's child."
I turned to face him fully. "I'm marrying a man I love."
"And inheriting someone else's mess."
"He's not a mess. He's a child."
Dad shook his head again, that practiced gesture of disappointment I'd seen so many times before.
What he said next left me speechless.
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"So now you're playing house with a widower's child."
"You could do better, Julie. You know that, right? You're settling. You should be having your own children, not taking in strays."
What do you even say to that?
How do you explain to your own father that love isn't a transaction, that family isn't always biology?
I didn't try.
I just walked back into the dining room.
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"You should be having your own children, not taking in strays."
***
Thomas proposed soon afterward, and a few months later, Thomas and I were married in a small, intimate wedding. Nothing flashy. Just close friends, simple vows, and a reception in my best friend's backyard.
And that seemed to disturb my father, too.
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