Dinner started politely. My husband, Mark, passed the potatoes and asked Brandon about his soccer team. Brandon relaxed, bragging about his goals. Then Mark set down his fork. “Brandon, I want to show you something,” he said, and rolled up his sleeve. His forearm was covered in thick, dark hair. “Do these look masculine to you?” Brandon blinked. “Uh, yeah, they’re your arms.”

“Exactly,” Mark said gently. “Hair is just hair. Chloe told us you were embarrassed by hers.” Chloe stared at her plate, cheeks burning. Brandon’s face went red, and he mumbled that it was a joke. I held my breath. Mark leaned back and calmly said, “I have a story about the first time I ever made a girl cry, and I think you should hear it.”