We were sitting in a diner, her pear-shaped body wedged into the booth, so short she could barely see over the table. She had on a mint-green pantsuit and a matching peridot ring.

She was sipping her decaf and I told her about Mary, the woman I loved. I expected her to scream, “I’ll never have great-grandchildren! You’ll never get married!” But she didn’t.

“Are you happy darling?” she asked, patting my hand.

“Yes, very.”

She paused to take another sip of coffee before asking, “Tell me something. Now I’m totally okay with the gay thing, I mean ya love who ya love am I right or am I right? But tell me something, is she Jewish?”

I didn’t say a word, thinking of Mary’s strict Catholic upbringing. I wanted to play Jewish mother and just pretend like I didn’t hear her, but my silence said it all.

“Ay gavolt! My granddaughter’s dating a shikse! Think of the children. They need to be raised Jewish. Oh my G-d I could have goyem great-grandchildren!”

I explained to her that I was nineteen and nowhere close to thinking about marriage and children. But she just continued to shake her head and rapidly breathe in and out.