We are in the air, slicing through the early morning sky like a hot knife through butter when my father sets down his phone, his signature gaudy silver ring glinting in the light as he looks up at me across from the coffee table between our chairs. “You’re getting married.” I don’t think I hear him correctly, so I wait for him to continue whatever sentence he was actually trying to say. He doesn’t say a word, though. Instead, he just stares at me like I’m the one who is supposed to respond. “I beg your pardon?” I ask, in the most demure voice I can muster. “You’re engaged to be married. The
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