“See, my sister has dreamed of meeting her prince charming ever since she was a little girl who forced me into wearing our father’s suit for our pretend weddings while drawing a mustache across my upper lip with a Sharpie.” The group of women near the back of the room gasp. “I know. To think, people call her the nice Martinez sister when she single-handedly gave me a permanent mustache during picture week.” “I thought it was a washable marker!” my sister shouts. “So you say…” A wave of chuckles follows my comment.
