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***
When I turned 30, my father looked up from his plate and set his fork down. “If you’re not married by 31. You’re out of the will.”
That was it. No warning, no raised voice, just the same cool certainty he used in business.
“That’s it? I have a deadline now?”
My mother barely looked up. “We’re just thinking of your future, Adam. People your age settle down all the time. We want to make sure that it’s done properly.”
“People,” I muttered. “Or people with the right last name?”
“If you’re not married by 31. You’re out of the will.”
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Dad’s lips barely twitched. “We’ve introduced you to plenty of suitable women.”
“‘Suitable’ for what? Their fathers’ golf games? The Cuban cigars? Dad, you can’t be serious.”
My mother sighed. “Adam, this isn’t about all those things.”
I set my fork down, appetite gone. “Maybe you should just choose for me. Make it easier on everyone.”
Dad folded his napkin, unimpressed. “No one’s forcing you. It’s your choice.”
But I knew what that meant. There was no choice.
“‘Suitable’ for what?”
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***
They started sending me on endless dates with women who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. Every time I tried to be myself, I could feel them sizing me up.
A few weeks later, after another robotic setup dinner, I wandered into a tiny downtown café, needing something real. I slid into a corner booth, nursing black coffee and a headache.
