I got engaged to Nathan in July. I called my father immediately. I called Tanya as a courtesy afterwards. I flew home to Connecticut in August to begin planning. And Tanya, over the course of the three days I was home, made it quietly clear that she had specific ideas about the wedding. She wanted to be "significantly involved." She made a spreadsheet. She asked my father, in front of me, whether it would be appropriate for her to wear "a soft cream or an ivory," which I think every woman reading this sentence will understand is the specific color question asked by a woman who has opinions about how close she can come to wearing white at her stepdaughter's wedding. I told my father, privately, that I did not want Tanya to wear cream.

He told me Tanya was just asking. I told him I had been planning this wedding for three weeks and I already felt, in my own father's house, like a woman being managed. He said, "Honey. Give her a little grace." I gave her grace. I gave Tanya, in fact, a shocking amount of grace. I let her help with the flowers. I let her coordinate the rehearsal dinner. I let her be quoted in the wedding announcement I was going to let my father's side of the family post on Facebook. I gave Tanya every inch of grace my mother would have given me as a daughter. And nine months later, my father called me at 7:18 PM on a Tuesday and told me Tanya wanted to walk me down the aisle.