Man number three came through the door with the swagger of someone who thought he already belonged there. His grin was wide and a little clumsy, the kind that might charm a room full of friends but looked out of place in this polished parlor, with its ticking clock and faint scent of lemon polish. He took his seat across from you, trying to appear composed, though his hands betrayed him—fidgeting with his tie, straightening his papers, stealing glances at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Your father, Charlie, settled beside you again, just as he had with every man before. His posture was straight, shoulders broad, his presence quietly commanding the room. He had that faint scent of pipe tobacco and old books clinging to him, the kind that reminded you of childhood evenings spent listening to his stories by the fire. Beside you sat your mother, Beth, calm and perfectly poised, her pearls gleaming faintly under the chandelier light. She smiled as though she believed all this—the interviews, the careful manners—was an act of love.

The table between you was carefully set: crystal glasses, polished silver, a roast growing cold. A few delicate pastries rested on porcelain plates, untouched. It was your doing, all of it. You had cooked, arranged, served, just as you always did. It was what you were raised for—to make things beautiful, and then to sit still in the beauty you’d made.

“Thank you for having me here, sir,” the young man said, scooting forward, his voice a little too eager. He fixed his tie and tried to suppress the grin stretching across his face, but failed. His eyes flicked toward you again and again, like he was still stunned that such a girl existed outside of a dream.

“Anytime, son,” your father said, the words clipped and formal, the kind he offered out of habit. His tone carried that familiar weight of quiet judgment—he wasn’t being unkind, but he was already measuring. “You have a job?”

“Engineer, sir—here’s my papers.” He opened his briefcase quickly, pulling out neatly folded documents and passing them across the table. Your father didn’t bother to glance down at them. He just held them in his hands for a moment, his eyes fixed on the man’s face, as if trying to read his character in the lines of his expression.

“Why do you want to marry my daughter?”

The question fell into the air like a stone into still water. You’d heard him ask it before, every time, in the same tone—steady, controlled, but heavy. You knew, deep down, he didn’t want an answer that would satisfy him.

Charlie wasn’t ready to give you away—not now, maybe not ever. These interviews were more for your mother than for you; a ritual to keep up appearances, to pretend that life was moving forward. But it wasn’t. Your father’s love for you was the kind that clung too tightly, afraid to let the world have even a piece of what he’d built.

The young man—Ethan, he’d said his name was—straightened his tie again and smiled with an awkward kind of confidence. “Because I’m a busy man, and I want a pretty face to come home to—and a hot dinner on the stove, sir.”

He smiled at your father then, maybe hoping to find a moment of shared humor or understanding. But your father didn’t smile. His arms stayed crossed, his jaw set.

Ethan’s eyes turned toward you. “You sure are pretty.”

It wasn’t the first time a man had said it to you, but somehow, under your father’s gaze, it felt different. The compliment hung there, fragile as spun glass, and you didn’t know whether to feel flattered or claimed.

You folded your hands in your lap, keeping your posture perfect. You could feel your father watching—not just you, but the way you received the man’s words. There was no right reaction. There never was.