Tiffany’s parenting style, by the way, was… creative. When I first started watching Rosie full-time, I found that baby happily gumming a pickle. Another time, a piece of beef jerky. Once, I’m fairly certain it was pepperoni that had fallen on the floor.

That child has survived things that would make a pediatrician faint, but she’s healthy, happy, and apparently has an iron stomach. So maybe Tiffany was on to something. Probably not, but maybe.

I met Graham eight months ago at a coffee shop. I was holding Rosie, who was doing that adorable baby thing where they grab at absolutely everything within reach. Graham was in line behind me.

When Rosie knocked my coffee right out of my hand and it splashed across the floor, I wanted to disappear. I was exhausted, embarrassed, and covered in lukewarm latte.

But Graham—he laughed. Not at me. With the situation.

He helped me clean up, insisted on buying me a replacement, and asked if he could sit with us. He saw a tired single mom in cheap clothes with a fussy baby and he stayed anyway.

Over the next eight months, Graham proved himself over and over.

He never made me feel bad about my situation. He paid for dinners without making it awkward. He showed up with diapers and formula just because. He looked at Rosie like she was already his daughter.

I told him I worked part-time doing paperwork at a dental office—filing, scheduling, nothing exciting. I told him Rosie’s dad wasn’t in the picture, but he sent a little financial help sometimes. I told him we were managing, but it was tight.

Graham believed every word, and he loved me anyway.

Three weeks before the dinner from hell, Graham got nervous and excited in a way I’d never seen. He said his family wanted to meet me.

“This is a big step,” he told me, squeezing my hand. “I want them to know how serious I am about you.”

I should have been thrilled. Instead, I felt ice forming in my stomach because I’d heard about Patricia Whitmore—Graham’s mother, the woman who had apparently sabotaged three of his previous relationships, the woman who believed her son deserved better than whoever he actually chose.

I was walking into enemy territory. And I was walking in disguised as the exact type of woman Patricia would despise most.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Tiffany: Hey, my parents are asking about Rosie again. They want to visit next month. This is getting complicated.

I stared at the message.

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