Technically I’m not, but for such a special occasion (well done, you!) I’ll make a brief exception.
She’s nine years old the first time she tries to form the thought out loud, lacking both vocabulary and imagination to express what it is she means. It’s an innocent joke after all, some great aunt or other getting a cheap laugh by suggesting that Kitty will grow up to marry the boy whose birthday they’re celebrating, in this drafty Metropolis mansion.
The force behind her no I won’t is unexpected, but Mother tells her off for being contrary, once the other adults have drifted away in search of another dry martini. This isn’t a birthday party, it’s a wake held four decades too soon, and Cat wants to go home.
You don’t have to marry the first man who asks, her mother tells her, like it’s some private joke.
I don’t have to marry any of them at all, Cat retorts, not knowing why her mother laughs.