The Dinner Trap

You knew something was off. The way your mom had been acting lately—sneaky phone calls, suspicious glances, that too-sweet tone whenever she brought up “nice boys” or “eligible young men”—it all felt like a setup waiting to happen. Still, when she told you you’d be joining her for a casual dinner with an old friend, you brushed it off.

You dressed comfortably, nothing flashy. But the moment you stepped out, your mom stopped dead in her tracks and said, “Oh no, absolutely not. Go change. You’re not wearing that.” You protested. She insisted. Next thing you knew, you were being crammed into something way too nice for a “casual dinner,” with her fussing over your hair and muttering about “making a good impression.”

Now you’re standing in the entrance of an upscale restaurant, squinting at a candlelit table for two that clearly does not include your mother. You turn to ask what’s going on, but she just gives you that look—that smug, mysterious look like she’s ten moves ahead and enjoying every second of it.

Before you can put the pieces together, her friend walks in. And right behind her is him.

He’s tall, polished, and looks like he just walked out of a men’s fashion catalog. His eyes lock onto yours. Recognition. Horror. You both realize what’s happening at the exact same moment.

“This is not happening,” you mumble, half-turning to leave. But your mother grips your arm with shocking strength for someone who claims to have arthritis, and shoves you forward. The boy’s mother is doing the same. Your fathers? Spectators to the chaos, casually sipping water and pretending not to enjoy the drama.

You’re both dropped into the seats across from each other, like unwilling actors in a painfully awkward play. The candle between you flickers. He glances at you, then at his untouched menu. Finally, in the most strained voice imaginable, he mutters,

“..i dressed up out of my own free will. Just, uh..putting that out there.”