Lisa launched herself at him.
I thought that moment settled everything.
For Brandon’s mother, Barbara, it did the opposite.
Barbara never openly attacked Lisa when other people were around.
That almost made it worse.
At family dinners, she smiled at her.
Asked about school.
Bought her birthday gifts.
Put her name on Christmas cards.
But whenever Brandon wasn’t nearby, the comments changed.
“Brandon has such a generous heart,” she once told me. “Not every man would agree to take responsibility for another man’s child.”
I looked directly at her.
“Lisa isn’t a responsibility someone dumped on him.”
Barbara smiled.
“Oh, I know. I’m only saying that raising somebody else’s child is a lot.”
Another time, while Brandon was outside grilling, she asked whether I expected him to pay for Lisa’s college.
I honestly thought she was joking.
“She’s seven.”
“I’m thinking about the future,” Barbara replied. “Brandon will eventually have children of his own.”
That phrase stayed with me.
Children of his own.
As though Lisa could never possibly count.
I told Brandon about some of Barbara’s remarks.
He always seemed uncomfortable.
“She’s old-fashioned.”
Or:
“She’s protective of me.”
Or:
“She’ll adjust.”
I wanted to believe him.
For most of the wedding planning, Barbara kept herself under control.
She complained about the flowers.
Questioned the guest list.
Thought we were spending too much.
Normal mother-in-law stuff.
She even volunteered to help with decorations.
So on the morning of the wedding, I wasn’t suspicious.
I was nervous.
Excited.
Overwhelmed.
We were getting married at a small bed-and-breakfast about forty minutes outside town.
Afterward, Brandon, Lisa, and I planned to stay there for a few days.
Lisa called it our “family honeymoon.”
The night before, she packed her own little purple suitcase.
“You’re not allowed to check it, Mommy,” she told me.
I raised my hands.
“Fine. But you better have toothpaste.”
“I do.”
“Underwear?”
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