My parents didn’t shout when they gave me the ultimatum. They never needed to. My father spoke the way he closed deals—calm, precise, final. “Marry by thirty-one,” he said over dinner, eyes fixed on his plate, “or you’re out of the will.” My mother didn’t flinch. She just adjusted her wine glass and smiled that practiced smile—the one that meant everything was unfolding exactly as she intended. That was my life: polished, controlled, staged. I wasn’t raised to be a son. I was raised to be a reflection of them. And now, apparently, a husband. I tried to play along. I attended…
