When I phoned my parents and told them about the new man in my life, adding that I thought this was it, the real thing, they were overjoyed. Their twenty-nine-year-old daughter was not married to her career after all. They wanted all the details, of coursehow we met, how long we had known each other, what he did for a living, was he taller than me (from my mother) and did he seem the stable sort (from my father). I answered all their questions truthfully, enthusiastically — except for the one about Elliot’s age. “He’s a few years older than me, Mom,” I lied.

In retrospect, I probably should have told them right from the start that the man I wanted to marry was fifty-five-ironically enough, my father’s age. But I knew that to tell them this over the phone would ruin the moment for us all,... Read More