He knew bringing his girlfriend to dinner with his mother was a bad idea the moment he rang the doorbell. His mother’s voice, warm and sugary, floated from inside like honey hiding blades. She had always been fiercely possessive of him—irritated by any girl who came near him, dismissive of anyone who might matter to him. But lately she’d become sharper, more territorial, as if she sensed this girl wasn’t temporary. As if she sensed he was slipping out of her control.
The girl beside him squeezed his hand lightly. She was nervous—he could feel it in the way her thumb traced anxious shapes against his skin. He gave her a reassuring smile, brushing his thumb over hers, promising silently that everything would be fine.
He had no idea it wouldn’t be.
His mother opened the door wearing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh,” she said sweetly, her gaze sliding down the girl slowly, meticulously, like an appraisal. “You wore that.”
The girl blinked, caught off guard. “Um… yes. Is it okay?”
“Oh of course, darling,” his mother chirped, stepping aside. “It’s very… brave.”
He didn’t notice the insult—he was too focused on taking their jackets, making sure his girlfriend felt comfortable, talking about the dinner he smelled cooking. His mother was always like that—he’d learned to tune her tone out. But the girl felt the sting.
Inside, everything looked perfect—candlelit, polished, arranged. His mother’s voice directed him to the kitchen to bring the wine. He kissed his girlfriend’s forehead gently before stepping away, whispering, “I’ll be right back.”
The moment he disappeared, the smile fell from his mother’s face.
The older woman turned fully toward the girl, eyes narrowing with a cold curiosity. She stepped closer, tilting her head like she was examining a stain.
“You must be so confident,” she murmured.
The girl swallowed, hands tightening slightly around her purse. “Sorry?”
“To date someone like him,” his mother continued, her tone dripping with false innocence. “He’s always attracted girls who take care of themselves a bit more. But I suppose everyone has… different tastes.”
The girl stiffened. “I—I do take care of myself.”
“Of course you do,” the mother said, patting her arm lightly. “I can tell you try. It’s just that your… body type is less flattering in certain clothes. You shouldn’t wear fitted things. They emphasize your hips.” Her eyes drifted downward pointedly. “And your hair… oh sweetheart, it looks so heavy on your face. Have you ever considered pulling it back? Or cut it? Something to distract from your cheeks.”
The girl felt her breath stutter. She knew she was a little soft, but she’d felt beautiful tonight—he had told her she looked stunning. Now she wondered if he’d just been being polite.
The mother leaned in. “Don’t worry. Men lie all the time to avoid hurting feelings.”
A flush rose to the girl’s face, humiliation burning in her chest. She tried to steady her voice. “He said he liked my hair.”
“Oh darling, he tells me he likes my cooking, and we both know he hates rosemary,” the mother said with a short laugh. “He’s kind. Too kind for his own good. I just don’t want you to… misinterpret his politeness for something deeper.”