I’m Nora, 31, and I always look for the good in people, maybe too much. I teach art at a middle school, bake when I’m stressed, and have a rescue cat named Ink who glares at me more than my students do.
Three years ago, I married Caleb: my best friend, my safe spot, my everything. We met at a charity run, clicked over our dislike for kale smoothies, and became glued together—or so I thought. He was warm, steady, and avoided fights, but I didn’t mind at first.
His family? They were… “tight,” Caleb called them, with a proud grin, the first time he took me to Sunday dinner at his parents’ house. That night, I made lasagna from scratch, learned everyone’s names, and chuckled at jokes I didn’t fully get.
His mom, Bridget, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and started fussing over the table. His dad, Henry, stayed quiet but watched me like I was a stranger. His sister Lauren smiled, praised my shoes, but stared at my chipped nail polish.
I thought I was just anxious, that after we married, I’d be one of them.
Spoiler: I never was.
It started at our wedding.
