I first met my father-in-law on the morning of my wife’s sister’s wedding. I arrived at the church alone, my wife being off on bridesmaid duty. I hovered on the periphery of the parking lot while a sea of Italian Long Islanders shot their cuffs and kissed each other on the cheek.

Ken, 6-foot-3 and tanned with a thick head of white hair, spotted me and waded through the crowd. I’d been rehearsing the moment for weeks: meeting the father of the girl I wanted to marry. His face opened, and he held out his big right hand. I did my best to shake it like a man with nothing to prove.