At 37, I thought I was finally free from my mother’s meddling—until she literally popped out of my closet during a romantic dinner with Theo, my new boyfriend.
She had a headlamp. A thermos. And a notebook.
“Just making sure you’re storing things properly,” she lied, as if this were a normal Tuesday night activity.
Theo, bless him, handled it like a champ. He endured her interrogation (“How many women before my daughter?”), passed her bizarre sponge test (“Wipe the table—no streaks!”), and even kept his cool when she handed him a handwritten list titled RULES FOR DATING MY DAUGTER (yes, with a typo).
I was mortified. Theo left. Three days of silence later, I assumed it was over.
Then he knocked on my door with flowers—and a plan.
“Bring your mom,” he said. “We’re going on a date.”
What followed was the most unexpected day of our lives: Theo’s literature lecture (Mom nearly fell asleep), a boat ride (she actually fell in the lake), and a climbing wall challenge where she threatened to haunt him if she fell.
By the time we reached his house for dinner, something miraculous happened—Mom relaxed. She laughed. She admitted, “He’s not so bad.”
Then Theo knelt down and proposed.
And my mother, the woman who’d spent decades convinced no man was good enough, nudged me and said, “I’d have said yes already.”
