The late afternoon sun bathed the living room in gold as I flipped through the mail—just bills and junk. Then the doorbell rang. It was Serena, right on time for our Saturday tradition. “Hey, Dad!” she beamed, breezing in with her usual energy. But something felt off.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” she said, fidgeting with her dress. “My fiancé.” I froze. “Fiancé?” She held up her hand, flashing a modest ring. “His name’s Edison. We’re getting married.” I was stunned. She hadn’t even mentioned a boyfriend. But the real shock came next. “He’s sixty.” Sixty. Forty-two years older than her. Practically my age.
