At my son’s wedding, I sat quietly in my little blue department-store dress while his bride’s family treated me like a harmless small-town widow they had generously agreed to tolerate, right up until the moment his mother-in-law glanced at me, smirked to her sister, and said just loud enough for the front row to hear, “That’s not a mother, that’s a mistake in a dress.”

To the people of Des Moines, I was Diane Sheffield, a respectable widow and mother of one who drove a sensible sedan. Most people assumed I lived on a modest pension and old habits of thrift, but they were very wrong.

I had learned long ago that being underestimated is one of the great hidden luxuries of middle age. Strangers explain the world to you in small, careful words, while you are free to see them clearly because they never think to watch themselves around you.

Then Hudson called me. “Mom,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice before he said another word, “I want you to meet someone.”

Hudson was thirty-two that year, a smart and kind man who was often disastrously sincere in matters of the heart. “Her name is Brianna,” he said, and the long pause that followed told me he was serious.

“Bring her to dinner,” I replied. The first time I met Brianna DeWitt, she spent twelve full minutes photographing her appetizer.

We were at a little Italian place downtown, and Hudson looked so proud of her that I tried very hard to be generous. She was objectively beautiful, polished in the way wealthy young women often are, as though they’ve been professionally lit since birth.