My little flour girl.

I had heard it, filed it under the enormous category of private jokes that long-married couples carry around, and thought no more about it.

I never asked.

I had made not-asking into a whole personal philosophy, in fact, a point of quiet pride.

Because here is the secret to hosting your in-laws for six months instead of six weeks without any of you losing your minds: you respect the boundary.

You do not become the nosy daughter-in-law who pries into every closed door and overheard phone call.