My brother Marcus has always believed he’s the unofficial matchmaker of our family. Unfortunately, his track record is nothing to brag about. The last man he set me up with was a vintage spoon collector who, by the end of our one and only date, had shown me photos of his “favorite spoons” like they were beloved pets. So when Marcus started talking about a guy named Andy he played pickleball with, I braced myself for disaster.
Still, he pushed. Hard. For weeks.
“Sarah, listen,” he kept telling me. “Andy’s different. Smart. Kind. Solid career. Owns property. Drives a nice car. And he’s picky — way too picky, honestly. So if he’s interested, that’s saying something.”
He pitched this man like he was applying for a mortgage. And because Marcus kept pressing with that stubborn older-brother determination — and because I was tired of being the “still single” daughter at family dinners — I caved.
“One date,” I told him. “One.”
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