“Thank you.” She steps inside, glancing around my foyer like she’s seeing it for the first time, even though she’s been here dozens of times over the years.
“Nervous?” I ask.
But before she can answer, the doorbell rings again.
“That’ll be the parents,” Freya says, and just like that, her excitement dims slightly. “Are you ready for this?”
“No. Are you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and small talk. My parents arrive first—my mother impeccably dressed as always, my father immediately asking about my latest quarterly numbers. But something’s different tonight. Maybe it’s the change of scenery, being here instead of at some stuffy restaurant, but they seem more relaxed than usual.
It’s been years since I’ve seen Freya’s parents and Bella and Mark. I’ve met them all before at various points over the years, but never in this context, never as the man who’s supposedly marrying their daughter and sister.
Freya’s father, Tom, shakes my hand with the firm grip of someone who’s worked with his hands his entire life. He’s acontractor, practical and straightforward in a way that’s both refreshing and intimidating. Freya’s mother, Linda, pulls me into a hug that catches me off guard with its warmth.
“We’re so happy for you both,” she says, and the genuine joy in her voice makes my chest tight with guilt.
We gather on my screened-in patio for dinner, a space I had professionally designed when I bought the penthouse but have used maybe three times in five years. Tonight, with the table set for eight and string lights casting a warm glow over everything, it actually feels like a home instead of a showpiece.
“This is lovely, Ben,” my mother says, surveying the space with what appears to be genuine approval. “I had no idea you had such a beautiful entertaining area.”
“I don’t entertain much,” I admit.
By “much” I mean ever.
“Well, that’ll change once you’re married,” Bella says with a laugh. “Freya loves hosting people. She throws the best dinner parties.”
I glance at Freya, who’s helping the caterer serve the appetizers. I didn’t know she liked hosting dinner parties. There’s probably a lot I don’t know about the life she’s built for herself, the person she’s become when I wasn’t paying attention.
As the evening progresses, I find myself relaxing in a way I haven’t in years. The conversation flows easily, jumping from Freya’s art to my parents’ retirement in California to Bella and Mark’s adventures in parenting to the upcoming engagement party we’ll have while my parents are still in town. My father actually puts his phone away after the first course, and mymother laughs—really laughs—at one of Tom’s stories about a disastrous renovation project.
This is what family dinners are supposed to feel like, I realize. Warm and comfortable and genuine, not the stilted performances my own family gatherings have always been.
After dinner, we move to the pool area. I’d forgotten I even had outdoor furniture until the caterer suggested we might want to use the space. Everyone settles into the comfortable seating with drinks and dessert, the adults talking while Bella shows photos of her kids on her phone.
“Ben, could I have a word?” Tom asks, setting down his beer and nodding toward a quieter corner of the patio.
My stomach tightens. This is it—the traditional father-of-the-bride conversation I’ve been dreading.
We walk over to the edge of the pool, far enough from the others that we can speak privately. Tom is quiet for a moment, looking out at the water.
“You know, I’ve been watching you with Freya tonight,” he says finally. “The way you look at her, the way you listen when she talks. That’s how a man should look at the woman he loves.”
The guilt and the truth both hit me like a physical blow. “Tom…”
“I know Freya can take care of herself. She’s always been independent, stubborn as hell, determined to do everything on her own terms.” He smiles, clearly thinking of his daughter with deep affection. “But it’s good to know she’ll have a partner who supports her dreams, who sees how special she is.”
“She is special,” I manage, because that part, at least, is completely true.
“Linda and I, we’ve been married thirty-six years next month. You want to know the secret?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“It’s not love. Love’s the starting point, but it’s not enough on its own. The secret is commitment. Choosing each other every single day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.” He turns to look at me directly. “Marriage isn’t a feeling, son. It’s a decision you make over and over again.”
The sincerity in his voice, the genuine care and wisdom he’s offering, make me want to confess everything. This man is giving me advice about loving his daughter, and I’m going to hurt them both when this arrangement inevitably ends.
