Daniel was seventeen when Laura met him.
He lived on the other side of town with his mother and younger brother.
He had dark hair, a crooked smile, and a motorcycle that made our father furious.
The first time Laura brought him home, Dad barely spoke.
He shook Daniel’s hand.
Asked him three questions.
Then spent the rest of dinner looking as though someone had placed something unpleasant on his plate.
I remember Laura kicking me gently under the table.
Don’t laugh, her eyes seemed to say.
I didn’t.
But I wanted to.
Daniel was nervous, and it was obvious.
He talked too quickly.
Complimented Mom’s cooking three times.
Called Dad “sir” so often that even Dad eventually told him to stop.
Mom liked him.
That was clear.
She saw what Laura saw.
A boy who had made mistakes, perhaps, but who looked at Laura as if she were the most important person in the world.
Dad saw something else.
Trouble.
Instability.
A threat.
From that day forward, arguments became more frequent.
“She’s sixteen,” Dad would say.
