On our third date, he asked about my family.
“My mother died when I was sixteen. My father and I aren’t close. He’s mostly retired now. He worked in logistics.”
That was all I said.
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
My father had stepped back from daily operations.
And we barely spoke.
I didn’t tell Roland that “logistics” meant Caldwell Freight.
By then, I had spent my entire life watching people change when they learned my last name.
Teachers suddenly became kinder.
Boys became more interested.
Friends’ parents suddenly wanted dinner invitations.
I wanted to know whether someone could love me without knowing any of it.
I thought Roland did.
We married two years later.
A small garden wedding in Inman Park.
Sixty guests.
Mostly Roland’s relatives.
His mother, Beverly.
His sister Faye.
Aunts.
Uncles.
Cousins.
I invited my father.
I mailed the invitation to the Peachtree Road house with a handwritten note.
I’d like you to be there.
He sent an antique silver tea service that had belonged to my grandmother.
With a card.
I’m sorry. I’m in London. — Dad.
Raymond came.
He sat in the back row wearing his charcoal suit.
When Roland’s relatives asked who he was, I said he was an old family friend.
At the reception, I overheard Beverly speaking near the cake table.
“Her own father didn’t even come. Imagine that. Poor girl has practically no family. Just that older man in the back. Roland is really all she has.”
I listened from behind a column.
I didn’t correct her.
I should have.
For the next six years, I became Roland’s wife with “no family.”
And Beverly never let me forget it.
To her friends, I was “the teacher.”
She described my upbringing as “very modest” in a tone that made modesty sound embarrassing.
She gave me cookbooks at Christmas.
One year, she bought me a guide called something like Running an Elegant Household on a Budget.
She corrected my table manners.
She frequently reminded me how fortunate I was to marry into the Tran family.
The irony was that they weren’t wealthy.
Roland’s late father had owned a dry-cleaning business.
Beverly sold it after his death.
They were comfortable.
Nice home in Dunwoody.
Lexus in the driveway.
But Beverly treated me as though I had been rescued from poverty.
And Roland allowed it.
Whenever she said something insulting, he laughed.
Changed the subject.
Or later told me,
“That’s just Mom. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
When I wanted to continue teaching, Beverly told me Roland earned enough for both of us.
When I wanted to keep my battered old couch, she said it looked like something from a thrift store.
It was.
Eventually, Roland almost always took her side.
We bought a house in Smyrna.
Beverly chose the paint.
Every Sunday we ate dinner at her house.
She sat at the head of the table.
Roland sat beside her.
I sat wherever a chair remained.
When I became pregnant, Beverly was thrilled.
Not because I was becoming a mother.
Because Roland was becoming a father.
Because there would be another Tran.
She bought the crib.
