Chapter 7: Family Politics and Engagement

The two queens of the household argued for days with no winner.

It was like a reality show showdown—passive-aggressive texts, cold stares across the dinner table, phone calls that lasted well past midnight.

Dad, unable to stand the commotion, simply decreed that I would marry a cousin from Grandma Lillian’s side of the family.

He called us all into his study, dropped the news, and left before anyone could argue. Problem solved, at least for him.

Vanessa stormed out of Dad’s office in a fury.

Her heels clicked down the hall like thunder. She didn’t even look back.

Caleb’s mom, delighted to see Vanessa’s plan fail, forgot her own candidate was also rejected, and joyfully held three days of dinner parties—housekeepers and staff alike were in high spirits.

She ordered extra desserts, played her favorite Sinatra records, and toasted to her small victory, never mind the bigger loss.

When the butler came to announce the decision, Noah spat his coffee ten feet:

He nearly choked, spluttering all over the breakfast table. Mom had to hand him a napkin.

“What, it’s her?”

He sounded like he’d just found out I was marrying a Bond villain.

I was still annoyed at his lack of composure, but he shook his head and commented:

“Pretty, but kind of cold.”

He’d met her a few times at family events—always on the edge of the crowd, barely making eye contact.

Thanks to Noah’s family’s matchmaking adventures, I also knew a bit about the girl.

I’d heard the stories—quiet, bookish, never made a fuss. Mom thought she seemed sweet; Dad just wanted the whole thing over with.

She’s the oldest daughter of the Montgomery family, the only daughter of the late first wife, a thorn in her stepmother’s side.

She has this air about her, like she’s always bracing for impact. The sort of girl who keeps her hands folded in her lap and never interrupts.

Since childhood, unloved by father or mother, she lived with her grandparents and became rather reserved.

I knew what that felt like—nobody looking out for you except a grandparent who spoils you with cookies instead of hugs.

Hmm…

I wondered if two quiet people could make a happy home. Maybe silence is more comfortable than fireworks.

What’s wrong with that? A quiet girl is nice.

It beats having someone who’ll keep score or stir up drama at Thanksgiving. I figured we could get along just fine.

My mom is gentle; if someone came to push her around, how could I stand it?

No one messes with Carol. I’d do the same for my wife—whoever she turned out to be.

Sure enough, Dad has good judgment.

It surprised me, but for once, Dad made a call I could live with.

Not only do I think so—Mom thinks so too.

She was practically beaming when she heard the news.

But her reasoning is different; she believes that since Grandma Lillian is good, the girls from her family must be good too.

Mom still believes in family magic, like goodness is passed down in the genes. She wanted the best for me, even if I couldn’t see it myself.

She even personally opened her jewelry box, picked out the most precious set of earrings, and sent them to the Montgomery house as congratulations.

She wrapped them in tissue paper, wrote a note in her neat handwriting, and asked the housekeeper to deliver it. Her way of saying ‘welcome to the family’ before we’d even met.

After the engagement was settled, mother and son went together to thank Dad.

We dressed up—Mom in her Sunday best, me in a jacket that still smelled like the dry cleaners. The walk to Dad’s study felt oddly formal, like we were auditioning for a part.

Dad, unusually, invited us to sit and spoke with us for a long while.

He talked about legacy, about making wise choices, about how every generation has to find its own way. It was more words than I’d heard from him in months.

He said, you are careful, don’t fight or compete, and that is good.

For the first time, he sounded almost approving. “Sometimes, being cautious is a blessing, Jason. Not everyone needs to be a warrior.”

Now that you’re getting married, you’re an adult; living your own life well is more important than anything.

He looked tired, but there was a softness to his voice. I saw a glimmer of the dad I’d always wanted.

Listening to Dad’s earnest advice, I could only think:

I guess parents worry, no matter how old you get or how much distance stands between you. It made me wonder if maybe I’d underestimated him all these years.

Parents who love their kids plan far ahead for them.

Maybe he wasn’t showing love the way I expected, but he was trying—in his own, roundabout way.