Katie

26 Years Earlier...

Vicky Graham fidgeted before the mirror, nerves tingling with a playful enchantment. Never before had she spent this much time pondering an outfit, but tonight was the night she'd meet her boyfriend's family, and she was determined to make a delightful first impression.

"Dad!" she called, half-anxious, half-excited. "Come here, please, and tell me if I look alright!"

A chuckle floated through the hallway as her father made his way up the stairs.

"You always look smashing, my dear. No need to fret," he said as he appeared by her door, grinning.

"Dad, I'm serious! This evening means a lot to me!"

"What's got you worried, love? That they won't like your dress? Trust me, no sensible parents judge their son's girlfriend by her wardrobe."

Vicky sighed. Why did policemen always have to be so practical?

"But it's not just about the dress! If they find my hair shabby, they might think I'm not good enough for him!"

"Did you wash your hair today?" her father teased.

"I wash it every day!"

"Then what's the kerfuffle?"

"Dad!"

"Alright, alright, let me have a look!" he sauntered over, eyeing her shoulder-length chestnut locks, the soft brown eyes, and the blue knee-length dress. Then, he gently placed his hands on her shoulders and peered intently at her.

"You look beautiful. Just like your mother when she was your age," he said with a hint of nostalgia, making the sign of the cross and planting a tender kiss on her forehead. "Just be yourself, and you'll bewitch them."

"You promise?" Vicky asked, unsure, as she had heard that phrase countless times. Just be yourself. Didn't all fathers say that to their daughters? It sounded a tad clichéd when you thought about it, for who truly knew themselves at eighteen?

"I swear!" her father declared, and they both descended to the kitchen.

Vicky's mother passed away when she was a toddler, and her father never remarried. He seemed content with his life, devoted to his job as a captain in the New Jersey State Police. He took exceptional care of his daughter—perhaps better than some fathers with living wives—knowing he was all she had.

Vicky gazed longingly out the kitchen window, her fingers dancing restlessly on the countertop. The sound of her father lighting a cigarette filled the air. Then he strolled over, offering her the pack with a knowing smile. She looked at him, slightly uncertain.

"I'm well aware you've been puffing away since sixteen," he said, a glint of humor in his eyes. "I'm not daft."

"But—"

"Now you're eighteen."

A grateful smile graced her lips as she took a cigarette and lit it up. Together, they gazed out the window, lost in thought, until her father broke the silence.

"You fancy him quite a bit, don't you?"

"Yes."

"He seems like a decent lad."

"He is."

"But if he ever does you wrong—"

"Dad!" She rolled her eyes playfully.

"Just saying!"

"Thanks, Daddy."

Just as the clock struck seven, the old Chevy pulled into the driveway. Vicky quickly put out her cigarette, snatched her handbag, and dashed to the door.