When my parents told me I had one year to get married or lose everything, they didn’t raise their voices. They didn’t need to. My father delivered it the way he handled business—calm, precise, final.
“If you’re not married by thirty-one,” he said over dinner, barely looking up, “you’re out of the will.”
My mother didn’t argue. She simply adjusted her wine glass and gave me that tight smile she used when everything was going according to plan.