“There she is.” Bri spoke from the corner of her mouth, dipping her head toward my future daughter-in-law, Rosalee.

Rosalee stumbled through the terminal, catching herself just in time. She had a dented old suitcase swaying at her side.

“Good lord. Is that all she brought with her, that tiny suitcase?”

Bri’s lips tightened; her thick brows furrowed together. “Looks like it, Mom.”

I felt for her. Bri’s baby brother was getting married when, in reality, it should have been her.

My daughter was beautiful, but different. Bri had her father’s stature and face, his squarish jaw and thick, broad shoulders. And when she was angry, she looked like a linebacker perched for attack on the field. As much as I had wanted it for her—marriage, babies, a traditional life—it wasn’t her thing. She was focused on her career building computers and creating her own custom models. I didn’t understand a bit of it, but I always told myself I was proud of her. Even if I had to remind myself of it from time to time…

I am proud of my daughter, even if she doesn’t choose to live her life the way I expected her to.

I zeroed in on my clumsy daughter-in-law-to-be as she stopped in front of us. She dropped her suitcase at her feet and tugged on her stubby black ponytail, a line of sweat beading at her brow. How can someone so young look so sweaty and out-of-breath all the time? I wondered, and not for the first time.

“I went to the wrong terminal. And then I got hassled at security over the buckles on my shoes,” Rosalee breathed.

Glancing down at her feet, I was horrified to see a pair of cheap Payless shoes that looked like a carryover from the nineties.

“They’re comfortable,” Rosalee said, following my gaze. “My mom always said to dress comfortably while traveling.” She shrugged, then chewed her bottom lip—one awful habit out of many.

But I did feel a small lurch in my chest at the mention of her mother. It could not have been easy, losing her mother and father at such an early age. But surely, her mother could have taught her a thing or two about fashion, about walking with her head up and finding a sense of direction … and about not wearing such ridiculous shoes.

Standing next to Bri and me, with our designer bags and expensive, yet still comfortable, shoes, Rosalee looked plumb ridiculous. I’d never been a flashy dresser—dressing like a Vegas showgirl isn’t necessary for displaying wealth. But I liked classic designs and pantsuits.

I’d bet Rosalee didn’t even own a nice pantsuit or dress shoes. How did she plan to attend dinners with Asher, when he met with clients and colleagues, if she didn’t have a decent set of shoes?!