On the drive home, my mind drifted to Steven's parents. Steven's father, Rodger, was a stern man with kind eyes and he was a bank president. He had been unsure of me, but in our first conversation, I had won him over. Soon, he became like a father to me. But Steven's mother, Stephanie, was another matter altogether. She always scrutinized: my house wasn't clean enough, my car wasn't a Volvo. The fact that I owned a Mercedes was irrelevant. My hair wasn't neat enough. Looking back, I ...