Meeting the Family

There is a soft tap at the door.

Not Father’s style.

It is her; she is radiant,

in a cashmere jumper.

After the pleasantries,

Mother shuffles her inside.

Mother hopes she will spill

her whole history,

over handmade eclairs

and chai latte.

I know she’s no fan of chocolate,

but she eats politely.

Even my sister is charming,

without a hint of satire.

The small-talk is warm.

I see the wedding bells

in Mother’s eyes.

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