Spring arrived with my parents.

“They’re going to hate me,” Ethan said for the fifteenth time, adjusting his collar in the mirror.

“They’re not going to hate you.” I was straightening the apartment with manic energy, moving a pillow three inches to the left, then three inches back. “They’re just traditional. And they have expectations. But they’ll come around.”

He caught my hand as I passed, stopping me. “Hey. Look at me.” When I did, he continued, “Whatever happens, we’re okay. Right?”

“Right,” I said, but my stomach was in knots.

Dinner was a disaster from the moment my parents walked through the door. My mother’s smile froze when she...