My mother had a lifetime habit of sabotaging my relationships. At 37, I thought I’d outgrown her interference—until she burst out of my closet mid-date with Theo, armed with a headlamp and a list of demands.
The interrogation was brutal. (“Do you work 9 to 5?” “How much do you drink?”) The tests were ridiculous. (“Wipe this table perfectly or you’re not worthy.”) And the handwritten RULES FOR DATING MY DAUGTER (yes, she misspelled “daughter”) was the final straw.
Theo left. I assumed I’d never see him again.
But three days later, he showed up with a plan: “We’re taking your mom on a date.”
What happened next was surreal. He charmed her during his lecture, rescued her when she fell into a lake, and even got her to climb a wall—at 60 years old. By dinner, she was smiling. “Okay,” she admitted. “He’s decent.”
Then he proposed. And for the first time in my life, my mother didn’t object—she approved.
