The next few meetings didn’t help. Eleanor insisted on visiting their apartment, trailing her fingers across furniture like a customs officer searching for dust. “It’s… quaint,” she said, eyes lingering on the thrift-store couch. “Daniel always loved the finer things, but simplicity has its charm.” Mia smiled tightly, her jaw aching.
Daniel adored his parents and often missed the intentions behind their jabs. “She just needs time,” he’d reassure her. “They don’t mean anything by it.” But each remark chipped away at Mia’s patience. The compliments about her “making the best of her situation” became harder to swallow.