Meeting Mark’s parents happened over a Sunday roast, three months into the relationship. His mother, Carol, opened the door and froze half a second too long before recovering into a smile. “You must be Julia,” she said, voice slightly off, like a rehearsed line she’d forgotten to make sound natural. His father, Gene, was quieter, watching Julia across the table more than the conversation seemed to warrant.
When she caught his eye, he looked away fast. Dinner was pleasant enough after that. Carol asked about her work, Gene asked about her family, and by dessert the strangeness had faded into ordinary small talk. Julia chalked the odd start up to nerves — meeting your son’s new girlfriend probably came with its own discomfort, especially with Chloe still a presence in the family’s history.
By the time she left, Carol hugged her at the door, warm and genuine. “It was lovely to finally meet you,” she said, and meant it. Driving home, Mark squeezed her hand at a red light. “They liked you,” he said. She believed him. She had no reason not to.