I remember the day I met my husband’s father. I was 17. DH had invited me over to go swimming. Afterwards, we went inside; his sister (who was just a year younger than me) told me that I could sit on the couch, even though I was still wet, so I sat down (DH had gone into his room to change). Soon after, their father came home. There I was, small, scrawny, and wet, sitting on his NEW couch. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave me…I wanted to die. Thankfully, eventually we developed a wonderful relationship (not so much with my SIL).
I remember the day I met my husband’s father. I was 17. DH had invited me over to go swimming. Afterwards, we went inside; his sister (who was just a year younger than me) told me that I could sit on the couch, even though I was still wet, so I sat down (DH had gone into his room to change). Soon after, their father came home. There I was, small, scrawny, and wet, sitting on his NEW couch. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave me…I wanted to die. Thankfully, eventually we developed a wonderful relationship (not so much with my SIL).