A woman knocked on my parents’ door. When my mother opened the door, she stood toe-to-toe with that woman, her mother-in-law.

Mom and Dad had just returned to Little Rock from their honeymoon in New York City. They moved into the other side of his parents’ duplex.

While they were away, Dad's mother had mowed their lawn. She had come to ask Fifi for payment.

Mom paid her. No argument, no scene, no fight.

That night, when Dad got home, Fifi issued exactly one directive: “I'm going back to Nashville with or without you.”

She didn't fight the battle. She ended the war. First week of marriage.

It took a year for Dad to get a transfer.

During that year, he was treated to my mother’s cuisine. The cooking gene skipped a generation. She wasn't withholding anything or making a point. He just had to live with the reality of what he'd married—every single night.

Dad's counterdemand: he'd move to Nashville only if Yiayia (my maternal grandmother) moved in with them.

Dad had grown to love Yiayia during the war years. She hosted servicemen from church for Sunday dinner every week and loved nothing more than pulling stories out of them. Dad became a regular almost immediately. He kept coming back, and somewhere in all those Sunday dinners, he met Mom.

He loved Yiayia as much as the rest of us did. People migrated to her for who she was. Her cooking was just a bonus.

Mom got Nashville. Mom got her mother in the house. Dad got fed. And all three were happy with the arrangement.

Only one person in that negotiation was playing.