I dated a Muslim girl, in high school. Her parents didn’t know; we had to do a lot of running around, and they never found out. (She had been my wife, in a past life! She was Queen of England! She was Portuguese, and it was one of those “arranged marriage” deals!) Nobody told us.
Years later, I referenced this relationship to someone I worked with in the office of the University I graduated from (I worked in accounting; she worked in C.A.D. databases/Planning). She laughed at my relative inexperience, and said she had dated plenty of people since high school, though I hadn’t mentioned that this was so.
Turns out: she had been my sister! She was a Princess!
The last day of work — for me, I was moving out-of-state, to boot — someone took our picture: me, standing there with my arm around her, almost a head taller than her, both of us beaming at the camera — and, after some months of bickering about incidental, conversational, cultural things (our job tasks didn’t cross each other’s), we really patched things up when I was leaving. Looking at the photo — as I did, from time to time thereafter — there was this odd-but-precise “chime” struck in my heart, of having “settled” things amicably with her.