By Andrew Hoxha 
I always imagined the first time I’d meet Daniel’s parents would be full of warmth—maybe awkward, sure—but the kind of awkward that ends with someone’s mom wiping a tear and saying, “You’re perfect for him.” I pictured soft light, maybe even some homemade cake, not the kind of silence that weighs on your chest and quietly splits you open.
But that’s the thing about silence. Sometimes, it says everything.
Daniel and I had been together for three years. He was the kind of man who’d bring me soup before I realized I was getting sick. Quietly thoughtful. Steady.
The kind of love that slipped in gently and stayed. And even though we were engaged, there was one part of his world I hadn’t fully stepped into yet—his parents.