Oliver cast a longing glance at a bread roll. “I’m older than you were when you got married.”

“This isn’t about your mother and me,” said David predictably. “Things are very different for your generation.”

“And,” added Miriam, “different for…for…” She waved her hands in a way that was probably intended to communicate for gay people without her having to say the words. “Men aren’t like women. You have different needs.”

I wanted to ask what kind of needs, exactly. But I wasn’t here to challenge causal gender-essentialism-slash-homophobia, I was here to support Oliver. So I stayed quiet.

“You wouldn’t understand this,” Miriam went on heterosplaining, “but women need commitment.”

“Whereas men,” David chimed in, “are dogs.”

Oliver glanced sharply up from his own hands, which he’d spent most of the conversation staring at. “Have you dated a lot of men, Father?”

There was a very nasty silence. The worst thing about David Blackwood—from an extensive collection of bad things—was that he looked a little bit like Oliver. The same slightly square features, the same hard grey eyes that, on him, I’d never seen soften. It was like a glimpse of the future if I accidentally wound up marrying a terrible person. “I suppose you get this attitude from him.” He didn’t even deign to look at me.

I like to think that the fact I didn’t respond to this at all, in any way, counts as one of the seven most noble things I’ve ever done in my life.

“I’m sorry,” said Oliver quickly.

Which wasn’t quite the rush to my defence I’d hoped for. But then again, we were here for our wedding not my ego, and pissing off David Blackwood before the main course was a bad strategy.

The uncomfortable silence that followed lasted just long enough for our food to arrive. And then Miriam piped up with, “I must admit, I don’t really understand why gay people want to get married at all.”

“Equality?” I suggested, hoping that this counted as engaging and not talking back.

She seemed to be genuinely thinking about this. “But isn’t that a bit selfish?”

I glanced at Oliver for help but got nothing. He was gazing into his superfood salad like it contained the mysteries of the universe. And maybe it would have been a good idea to let it go, but I hoped if I kept asking open questions, I could at least avoid another excruciating silence. “Why selfish?”

“Well”—Miriam looked faintly pained—“for normal people, marriage has a tradition behind it. And it seems a shame to try and change that for everybody else just because you feel left out.”

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I don’t consider myself abnormal.”

That got Oliver off the bench but not for the team I wanted. “She didn’t mean it like that.”