22

Love and Happiness. - Al Green

Mariah told me she wanted me to meet her parents before we went to bed last night.***The light in Mariah's room was soft, gentle even, filtered through cream curtains that fluttered with the breeze of a slightly cracked window. The scent of her still lingered on my skin—warm, citrusy, faintly sweet, like orange blossom and body heat. My hand rested on her pillow, The one she'd slept on, her curls still shedding onto the white silk. She was already up. I could hear her laughter faintly from the kitchen, caught in that casual rhythm she had when she was trying not to be nervous.

I wasn't moving yet. My eyes were open, my body still wrapped in her sheets, but my mind was far ahead—at the table, across from the people who made her. Her father, Joshua. Her mother, Melinda. Names I'd heard on her lips during soft moments in bed, mentioned with affection and history. But today, I'd meet them. As her person. Or maybe not quite yet—but something like it.

I sat up slowly, the silk robe she'd loaned me sliding down my shoulder. The apartment had that lived in feeling I never had. Family photos hung in soft toned frames. The faint smell of breakfast—something with garlic and peppers—lingered in the air. Puerto Rican cooking, I guessed. Joshua's doing. I imagined him slicing onions with the same hands he once used to button Mariah's school uniforms. I imagined I'm watching me across the table, trying to figure out if I was worth the trouble I clearly brought into his daughter's life.

And God... what a privilege it would be to even be considered a problem by them.

***

The dining room was modest but full of soul. The kind of place that held several birthdays, Sunday dinners, tough conversations and unexpected laughter. I stood at the edge of it for a moment, smoothing down my blouse. Black silk. High collar. My slacks were perfectly tailored. The heels were low, respectful. The earrings simple pearl with gold studs. Everything about my outfit said: I'm serious. I came with my heart in my hands.

Joshua was already seated, his arm draped loosely over the back of Melinda's chair. His eyes lifted to mine as I entered—not harp, but observant. A deep, unreadable brown. The kind of gaze that had seen enough of the world to read most people without them opening their mouths. Melinda smiled first. Small, warm, practiced. The kind that comes from being the emotional anchor of a household.

Mariah was across the table from them, next to an empty seat—the one clearly meant for me. Her eyes met mine for a second. They sparkled. But beneath it, I could tell she was waiting to see how this would all unfold. Her fingers brushed her thigh beneath the table. A nervous tick. She didn't speak l, but i didn't need her to. Her whole body was saying please don't ruin this.

I approached slowly. Measured. I greeted them with a quiet, "Good morning," and a soft smile. My voice was calm, low. Measured like everything else I was trying to be.

Joshua didn't speak for a long moment. He just looked at me. Really looked. And I stood there, letting him. Letting him measure the age of my face. Letting him see the way my eyes followed Mariah like she was gravity and I was the moon. Letting him think whatever fathers think when they see someone loving their daughter the way they might've warned her against.

"Have a seat," he finally said, nodding toward the chair. His voice was smooth. Deep. The kind of voice that came with stories I'd never be told.

I sat.

****

Breakfast passed slowly, the food was good—eggs with onions, sweet plantains, and something spiced i didn't recognize but enjoyed. Melinda asked about my job at the university, and I answered simply. I talked about education. Policy. Nothing personal. Nothing too revealing x Joshua said little, but his eyes never strayed far from Mariah. Or me.

But what I felt most wasn't the conversation. It was the way Mariah's foot brushed mine gently under the table. How her eyes kept drifting toward me like she needed proof that was really there. How her mother smiled just a little wider every time she caught us look at each other.

And God help me, I wanted them to like me. I didn't think I cared until I sat there in that chair, feeling Mariah's gaze like a pulse across my skin. But I wanted them to see what I couldn't say: I love her. I love her mother than I can always show. I'm older. I've been burned. I've made mistakes. But I will never be careless with her.

****

After breakfast, Melinda brought out coffee. The room grew quieter. Joshua finally leaned back in his chair and said, "You know, she never brought anyone home before."

Mariah blushed, eyes shooting to her lap. I reached for my coffee, holding it steady even though my hand tensed a little.

"That so?" I said gently, glancing her way. "I'm honored."

He didn't answer right away. Just nodded once. Then said, "Don't give us a reason not to be."

And I knew then—I had passed some kind of test. Not because he approved but because he'd made the warning out loud. Because he believed I might be worth it.

Mariah looked at me again. This time, her expression was different. Proud. Soft. Like she saw the version of me I was always afraid to show the world. The version I saved just for her.

And I'd spend every breath I had proving her right. ________________________