My daughter had never brought a boyfriend home before.
Not once.
So when she sent me a message that afternoon saying, “Please be nice. I really like him,” I smiled to myself and promised her I would.
I had no reason not to.
She was eighteen. She was old enough to make her own choices, and if this was the first young man she had ever felt comfortable bringing home, I wanted to make sure he felt welcome.
I expected an awkward introduction. Maybe a nervous handshake. Perhaps one of my husband Daniel’s terrible jokes that would make everyone uncomfortable before dinner even started.
What I did not expect was for Daniel to take one look at the boy standing beside our daughter and immediately order him out of the house.
And I certainly did not expect an old photograph to explain why.
It was around six-thirty when the front door opened.
Maya walked in first, smiling nervously. Her hand was wrapped tightly around the hand of the young man beside her.
He looked nothing like the kind of boyfriend I had imagined for her.
He was thin and extremely pale, with long black hair falling around his face. His fingernails were painted black. Tattoos covered parts of both arms, and dark eyeliner surrounded his eyes.
