When Emma fell for a modest schoolteacher, her parents issued an ultimatum: him or us. On her wedding day, their chairs remained empty, but her grandfather stood by her side. A decade later, at his funeral, her distant parents pleaded for forgiveness—though not for the reasons she expected.
Growing up in our immaculate suburban home, my parents often joked about the grand mansion we’d live in someday.
“One day, Emma,” my father would say, straightening his flawless tie in the hallway mirror, “we’ll have a house so huge you’ll need a map just to find the kitchen.”
My mother’s laughter would ring like crystal glasses, adding, “And you’ll marry someone who’ll help us get there, won’t you, darling?”
“A prince!” I’d answer as a child. “With a giant castle! And lots of horses!”
I thought it was funny throughout my early childhood. I even used to daydream about my future castle. But by high school, I understood there was nothing funny about it at all.
