My son’s fiancée called me an ugly cow in French, thinking I couldn’t understand. I smiled politely and poured her more wine. Three hours later, I casually mentioned that immigration authorities would be very interested in our conversation.
Let me back up and tell you how I discovered my future daughter-in-law was nothing more than a gold-digging fraud with a charming accent.
It started on a crisp October evening in Austin when my son David—thirty-five and finally serious about someone—brought home the mysterious French woman he’d been dating for six months. Camille Dubois was everything I’d expected from his breathless descriptions.
Petite, elegant, with that effortless style French women seem to master in the womb. Her English was impeccable, tinged with just enough accent to be charming rather than difficult.
“Mrs.
Thompson,” she said, taking my hands in both of hers. “David has told me so much about you. I’m so excited to finally meet the woman who raised such a wonderful man.”
I warmed to her immediately.
After David’s string of vapid girlfriends who couldn’t be bothered to remember my name, Camille’s genuine interest in our family history felt like a blessing.
She asked thoughtful questions about the photos on my mantel, complimented my cooking with sincere appreciation, and even helped clear the table without being asked. David beamed throughout dinner, clearly smitten.
“Camille speaks five languages,” he boasted, squeezing her hand. “She’s been teaching me French, though I’m hopeless at it.”
“Oh, you’re being modest,” Camille laughed, eyes twinkling.
“His pronunciation is—how do you say—endearing?”
We all laughed, and I found myself thinking David had finally found someone worthy of him.
Someone with substance, intelligence, and genuine warmth. That feeling lasted exactly forty-seven minutes. After dinner, David excused himself to take an important work call.
I was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when Camille’s phone rang.
She answered in rapid French, her voice carrying from the living room with the casual assumption that comes from believing you’re speaking a private language. Here’s the thing about assumptions—they can make you sloppy.
I spent four years of my youth in Lyon, working as an au pair to pay for college. My French might be rusty, but it’s far from dead.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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