I was 23. Sam, my fiancé at the time, and I were visiting my parents. By the door were a pair of men’s dress shoes: faded, worn out. Duct tape may have been involved in holding them together.
My mom pointed to the shoes and asked me, “Why haven’t you done anything about this?”
I didn’t understand the question. The shoes were obviously not mine.
“If you’re going to be his wife, you have to buy him new shoes. Can you imagine what your dad would be wearing if it weren't for me?”
