Chloe just adjusted the scarf on her mother's neck. "Mom's right, Mark. You could be a little more generous with the attitude. We're trying to have a girls' day."
I swallowed the anger. I told myself it was just stress. I told myself that once we were engaged, once it was official, the dynamic would shift: I would be the husband, the head of the household, and Linda would be relegated to the background.
I was an idiot.
I decided to propose on her 27th birthday. I went all in. I bought a ring that cost more than my first car—a platinum band with a diamond that required insurance. It was a stretch financially, but I wanted to silence Linda's voice in my head. I wanted a ring that screamed, "I am not just safe. I am successful."
I booked a table at Le Jardin, the most pretentious French restaurant in the city. Reservations were three months out; suit required.
The night of the dinner, I was nervous. I had the ring box burning a hole in my jacket pocket. But when I pulled up to the front of the restaurant to hand the keys to the valet, I saw Chloe standing there.
She wasn't alone. Linda was standing next to her, dressed in a gown that was arguably more flashy than Chloe's.
"Surprise!" Chloe squealed as I got out of the car. "Mom was feeling lonely tonight, and I couldn't just leave her at home with a microwave dinner on my birthday. I told the hostess to add a chair."
My stomach dropped. "Chloe, this was supposed to be a romantic dinner. Just us."
Linda stepped forward, patting my cheek with a manicured hand. "Oh, relax, Mark. Don't be so possessive. You'll have her for the rest of your boring life. Let me have a night."
I looked at Chloe. She gave me that pleading puppy-dog look, the one she used whenever she spent too much money or broke a promise. "Please, Mark, don't ruin the vibe. Mom's excited."
"Fine," I said. "Fine."
The dinner was a disaster from the appetizers. Linda complained about the table location. She sent the wine back—a $200 bottle—because she claimed it was corked. It wasn't. She dominated the conversation, talking about her ex-husband's new girlfriend, how tacky she was, and how Chloe was destined for great things.
I sat there sipping my water, listening to them plan a future that I was paying for, but apparently not invited to emotionally.
Then the dessert menu arrived. This was my cue. I had arranged for the waiter to bring champagne. I took a deep breath. I reached into my pocket, my hand shaking slightly.
"Chloe," I said.
The chatter stopped. Chloe looked at me, her eyes widening. She knew.