I had a clear, logical sign that had nothing to do with the heart.
All the times I dated, I came to the girl’s home and met her parents. The mothers were very often gracious and nice, the fathers more skeptical.
It was raining the evening of my first date with my wife. I rang the bell, and a younger girl invited me inside while she called for her sister. As I was stepping forward to close the front door behind, my date’s mother came from the kitchen, looked at my soaking shoes, and snapped, “Unless you’re going to pay for the carpet cleaner, you can either stay where you are or take off your shoes.”
At that moment, I knew that I had met my mother-in-law.