From the moment we arrived, I could tell something was off. My mom hugged her, but it was stiff and forced. My dad barely even acknowledged her. The conversation at dinner felt polite but hollow, like everyone was carefully tiptoeing around something.Then, as soon as Mallory stepped away to take a phone call, my mom leaned in, her voice low but firm. “Honey… you sure you want to marry someone that big? You’re a small guy. It’s not a good match.”My dad, as if on cue, added his thoughts. He brought up “health” concerns and warned me I might “resent it later.”

For a second, I just sat there, stunned. The words didn’t even seem real. Were they seriously reducing my entire relationship—the best, most fulfilling relationship I’d ever had—to something as shallow as body size?Mallory is

the person who cooks for me when I’m overwhelmed, who remembers every little detail about what I like, who supports me in ways I never even knew I needed. She’s the first person who has made me feel completely safe, completely seen. And yet, to my parents, all they could see was her body.