Then the doorbell rang.
Graham was standing on the porch in the button-down shirt he wore to job interviews, holding a small bouquet of my favorite carnations. My father answered before I could stand up.
“We’re eating,” my father said flatly. “You weren’t invited.”
“I’m here to pick up my fiancée, sir.”
No help. No family. Nothing.
“Your what?” My mother’s voice cracked from the dining room.
I was already grabbing my purse. My father blocked the doorway with his shoulder, not quite touching Graham but close enough to make the point.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “You walk her out that door tonight and she’s done. No help. No family. Nothing.”
“Dad, stop.”
“You’re the poorest excuse for a man I’ve ever seen in this house. And you think you’re taking my daughter?”
Graham didn’t flinch. He just looked past my father at me.
