At my bridal fitting, my fiancé’s mother looked me up and down in a $14,000 gown and said, “White is for girls who have a real family waiting at the end of the aisle.” And while the entire salon stood frozen, my fiancé lowered his eyes and said nothing.

“Camille, wait,” Miles finally called out. His voice chased me halfway to the door, so I stopped, but I did not turn around to face him.

He came closer and lowered his voice, telling me not to go like this. I asked him what he meant by that, and he exhaled through his nose while explaining that his mother just gets intense sometimes.

I looked at him then and really saw the handsome face I had kissed in candlelit restaurants. I saw the man who had just watched his mother tell his fiancée that she was unworthy of white because she came from nowhere.

And still he wanted me to help him make the scene smaller and easier for him to survive. I told him to enjoy the rest of his appointment and walked out into the winter air of California.

I did not cry in the car or the elevator. I did not cry when I let myself into the apartment Miles believed was the nicest place I’d ever lived, not knowing I paid more for its security than he did for rent on his loft.

I simply took off my heels, set them side by side near the console table, and stood in the silence. The apartment occupied the top three floors of a historic building overlooking the bay.