At first, I didn’t realize that my family’s origin story was a little off. I have a distinct memory of showing my music teacher a copy of my dad’s senior yearbook, pointing out the pictures of my parents with no real awareness of anything strange. My sister and I would pore over the words my mother had inscribed in that yearbook, giggling over her cringe-inducing inspirational message, but never considering much beyond its cloying sincerity.
Like Mary Kay Letourneau, like Brigitte Macron, my mother is a woman who married her former student. And like their respective husbands, Vili Fualaau and new French president Emmanuel Macron, my father was a minor when they met. Though there are differences between my parents’ story and the others—the age gap between my parents is less than half that of those couples, and my father was 16 when he met my mother—it feels disingenuous for me to deny that, on a fundamental level, my parents are like these scandalous couples.
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