“Mom, those are the fancy plates.”

I glanced down at the china I was holding. “Yes.”

“We’re eating lasagna.”

“I know, dear.”

Marissa watched me from the kitchen doorway.

“Mari, your mother has been rearranging those plates for 20 minutes,” Henry said from my phone, where I had him on speaker. “Don’t interfere with the process.”

I shot a look at the screen. “You were supposed to be here.”

“I know.” Henry sounded truly upset. His work trip had gone one day past schedule, meaning the man my daughter planned to marry was showing up for dinner for the first time while Henry was four hours away. “I’ll meet him tomorrow. Properly.”

Marissa glanced at the clock. “He’s going to be here in 10 minutes.” She fiddled with one of her earrings. “Is this too much?”

“No,” I said. “You look beautiful.”

Then the doorbell rang.

Marissa had been born with a dark reddish birthmark spreading across much of the left side of her face. When she was little, it didn’t bother her. At four, she once colored a self-portrait with a purple crayon covering half her face because “purple is prettier than red.”

Then school started. Other kids taught her to notice it. By seven, she already knew which side of class photos she wanted to stand on. By eleven, she knew exactly how to tilt her face whenever a camera came out. At fourteen, she wouldn’t let me take her picture unless she got to approve it afterward.

Dating scared her even more. Her biological father had vanished years before, leaving me to explain why a man who was supposed to love her had left. Henry came into our lives later. He never tried to replace anyone; he just kept showing up and never made Marissa feel like a stepdaughter.

Even so, she never brought boys home. Not once. Then six months ago, she called me to say she had met someone.

Now that somebody was standing on my porch.

I opened the door. Graham was handsome in an effortless way. For one ugly second, a dark thought crept into my mind: Please don’t let this be some kind of cruel joke. I hated myself for even thinking it.

Graham held out a bottle of wine. “Mercy?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Graham.”

Marissa appeared behind me, and Graham’s whole face lit up at the sight of her. “Mari! Your mom actually let you bring dessert?”

Dinner went better than I’d expected. Graham asked about Henry, listened attentively, and knew every single preference Marissa had.

At one point, Marissa began telling me about their disastrous weekend at a cabin. Graham pulled out his phone. “Oh, yes,” he said, showing me a photo.

Marissa stood beside a dead campfire, hair blowing across her face, laughing with her eyes nearly shut. Her birthmark was completely visible. No careful angle. No flattering lighting. Nothing hidden.

Years earlier, she would have snatched the phone away in a panic. That night, she just kept eating and joked about how awful the fire was.

After dinner, Marissa got up. “I forgot the cheesecake. It’s upstairs in the little fridge. I’ll be right back.”

Her footsteps faded upstairs. Graham waited until we heard her bedroom door open.

Then he set down his fork. The warmth drained from his expression. He leaned toward me across the table and dropped his voice to a whisper:

“I did my part of the deal, now it’s your turn.”

I went still. “What deal?”

He gave a quick, nervous laugh. “Mercy, please. Don’t tell me Henry didn’t explain any of this to you.”

My hands turned cold against the table. “What are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know?”

One horrifying possibility hit me right away. Henry. Had he done something? Paid Graham? Struck some kind of financial arrangement to get a handsome man to date our daughter?

My chair scraped back aggressively. “If somebody offered you money to date my daughter…”

Every trace of humor drained from Graham’s face. “What?”

“If Henry promised you something—”

“Mercy, no!” Graham stood up, dragging a hand over his face. “Oh God, is that what you thought?”

“Tell me what I’m supposed to think!”

He glanced nervously toward the hallway. “Not here…”