Where did I grow up? Did my parents still live there? What did my father do with his hands all day? What kind of schools had I attended? Did I understand what kind of social obligations came with marrying into a family like theirs?
At the end of the meal, after dessert had been cleared, my father arrived to help carry down a box of childhood things Prescott had insisted I bring over that night. Dad had driven in from Lancaster in an old truck because he refused to hire a car when his own vehicle worked fine. He wore faded jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt stained with grease from repairing the truck’s alternator that afternoon. His knuckles were rough, his beard slightly uneven, his expression quietly amused by all of it.
He smiled at Randolph and offered his hand. Randolph shook it with two fingers. That was all it took. He never looked any further than the flannel. He never wondered why the watch under my father’s cuff cost more than his own car. He was too arrogant to think he needed to look closely.
By the time Prescott and I got married, Randolph had convinced himself he was protecting the family line from contamination. He summoned me to his office one afternoon, set a brutal prenuptial agreement on his desk, and told me in a voice as smooth as polished stone that if I did not sign it, there would be no wedding.
“I am not punishing you, Violet,” he had said, fingers steepled. “I am preserving order. You may think you love my son, but marriages fail. Men become careless. Women become ambitious. I will not permit a temporary emotional decision to cost this family a fortune.”
I read every clause. No spousal support. No claim to premarital assets. No claim to appreciation of inherited holdings. Total separation of property. What is yours remains yours. What is his remains his. Each party exits with what they brought in.
Randolph watched my face, waiting for humiliation.
Instead, I signed.
He thought he was fencing me out of their money. In reality, he was building a fortress around mine.