I never told my in-laws that my father is the Chief Justice. I spent the entire day cooking Christmas dinner for the family, only to have my mother-in-law make me eat while standing in the kitchen.

David stared at me.

“No.”

I said nothing.

“No.”

He looked at Michael.

“That’s not possible.”

Michael’s expression was almost pitying.

“Jonathan Whitmore has one daughter.”

David turned back toward me.

“You said your father worked for the state.”

“He does.”

“You said he was in public service.”

“He is.”

“You never said—”

“You never asked.”

That was not entirely true.

He had asked what my father did when we first met.

I had said he worked in the legal system.

David had immediately begun talking about himself.

His law school.

His clerkship.

His ambitions.

His firm.

By the end of our first date, he knew I was a teacher.

He knew I had grown up in Austin.

He knew my mother died when I was nineteen.

And he knew almost nothing else.

Years later, I realized that David did not ask questions unless he believed the answer could benefit him.