“God, no, please, don’t get the book out,” I groan, leaning back against the couch with my face buried in my hands. I wish I could disintegrate into the linen. It’s a losing fight, though, my mother is already halfway to the bookshelf where she stores them all.

All the scrapbooks. All of them. From age 0 to 19.

You’re sitting on the couch beside me, an eager smile on your face. Like you can’t wait to team up with my mom in embarrassing me. This is the worst possible scenario for tonight. Not how I expected it to go at all.

Tonight is the first time you’re meeting my family, first time I’ve brought you back to my childhood home. We’ve been dating for about 5 months now, so I figured it was time for this step. Might be soon to others, but it felt right for us. I really like you, so I want you to be integrated into all parts of my life. Even bringing you back to the small town I grew up in and getting to show it all off like I’m a tourist with you.

My mom was so excited to meet you, seeing as I’ve only brought one other girl home, and that was just some early hormones kind of relationship. She instantly latched onto you as soon as we walked through the door, acting like her son—whom she hadn’t seen in a month—didn’t even exist. We ate dinner and then got to talking on the couch about everything and anything.

That’s when the baby photos were brought up. And you encouraged it. I’ve never felt more betrayed.

My mom sits down on the other side of you with the humongous book, flipping open to find the best photos. She lands on one of me when I was about 4 or 5. I’m standing in the doorway that’s right behind us, wearing one of my mom’s bra’s over my clothes. Of course I had to strike a pose too.

You laugh loudly and I match your volume with a groan. “Please, put me out of my misery.”