I don’t know why I didn’t think of someone like Miss Emily. It never occurred to me to imagine it. I guess you could say I lacked imagination. I married his son after knowing him for only five days. A whirlwind romance.

I was a cashier at the local supermarket. Her son came on Tuesdays to do his shopping, to get discounts. I thought he was someone who didn’t spend lavishly even if he could. I could tell it came from good people. He always wore a nice suit, and he had this nice coat, the kind of fabric that made you want to reach out and touch.

Of course, I could never do anything like that. I’m not that bold. And, anyway, we had no right to behave like this with customers. I did not sell clothes. I scanned the barcodes. We were only asked to take coupons and cash, or press buttons on credit card machines. We no longer accept personal checks, we were told.

The night I met Miss Emily’s son, I was finishing my shift when I saw him come in. He looked very glamorous, and I had never seen someone like that so close, looking me straight in the eye. He was definitely not the kind of person I grew up with. The kind that swears, grabs his crotch, burps. If they didn’t like you, you would know it and they would say it to your face. There was no way to pretend.

I helped him carry things to his car and we started talking. I liked talking with him. He was funny and friendly and polite. That’s all I really need to know about someone. I remember now that it snowed. Large fluffy and soft flakes that are reminiscent of diamonds. That night, I returned to his house, and the rest, as they say, is history. We are married.

I met Miss Emily shortly after marrying her son on a Friday evening. She took the first possible flight to come see her son. She thought I was pregnant because it was sudden. I was not.

She was so excited to meet me. She asked her son to drive her to the supermarket, and they waited in the parking lot for two hours until I finished my shift. I had been up for eight hours, so I didn’t look too hot or feel so good about myself. But I haven’t thought about things like that, impressions – first impressions – what they mean and how people don’t change their feelings about you even years later.

I was wearing jeans and an old pair of sneakers, and a sweatshirt that was several sizes too big. My hair was tied in a low ponytail. I wore no makeup. Like I said, I didn’t think about things like that at the time.

I climbed into the back seat, where Miss Emily sat alone. She took my face, all of its details and pores, assessed what kind of skincare or serum I might need, and kept those thoughts to herself. She smiled politely and told me she was so happy to meet me, the girl her son had married.

I was part of the family now, she said, and it was not for her to say anything about it. Her son was, after all, his own man.

As far back as she can remember, all she ever wanted was a family, too. Her husband had died a few years ago. Heart attack. Suddenly. She had married him right out of college. She went to law school, became a partner, owned her own firm. Had three children. Property purchased. She could afford to travel and take vacations abroad.

She had improved. She had worked very hard for what she had, she said. She had been – at one point in her life, so she knows these things – what people called trash. She had improved, she said. She moved on, picked herself up by her boots, got to work, and no one could use that word to describe her anymore. She made sure of that, she said.

Over dinner that night in a restaurant, she told me love stories of her son when he was a child. How he had wanted to be a weed cutter in a big city ballpark when he was growing up. His first girlfriend, his crushes and heartbreaks. Her prom and her pets. I loved hearing these stories. She made them so lively and funny.

The bill came and she paid. I begged her to tell me another story. She thought for a moment. And then she talked about a pigeon that her son had picked up on the road outside their house when he was about ten years old. She didn’t know what he had there with him was a pigeon. She thought he had been injured, that there had been an accident somewhere, but he was smiling at her with all that blood on him, and she was relieved to learn that he had just had a dead bird. She said her son always found things like that — dead animals, corks and bottles, old books — and brought them home. She said he always asks her to do something about it.

When her son drove us back to her apartment, she asked me about my family. I said it was just me. My parents were no longer there. They died in a car accident. I should have left it at that, but Miss Emily had spent the whole evening telling me stories, and she was so open and honest that I wanted to tell more. My dad had been drinking and really shouldn’t have driven. He was accelerating. Ran a red light. It was raining. The car, a cheap old thing, was destroyed.

I was in my senior year of high school when all of this happened. My parents didn’t have life insurance. The car insurance had expired and no one had bothered to renew it. There were no savings or anything like that. So I had to quit school and find a job to pay the rent. I was not in a position to spend a few weeks or a few months sending CVs, going for interviews. I needed a job right away, and the supermarket gave me one.

I didn’t want to live with anyone and was proud to find a place where I could have everything to myself. It was across from a park. He had a window. Hardwood floors, bath, toilet, stove and fridge. I was not a person who needed much. I installed shelves and put a mattress on the floor. An actress, I was told, had lived there. She gave up the place when she had a big escape in Los Angeles. I thought it was a good chance to move into this space. Maybe I’ll take a big break myself. I didn’t know exactly what it could be, but it was something to believe in and hope for too.