At 37, I thought I was finally free to date without my overbearing mom interfering. But when I invited Theo over for a quiet dinner, my mom crashed the evening—literally hiding in my closet with a headlamp and thermos, eavesdropping.
She burst out mid-date, grilled Theo like a detective, then handed him a sheet titled “RULES FOR DATING MY DAUGHTER” (complete with a typo). Mortified, I kicked her out. Theo left soon after, clearly shaken.
Three silent days later, he knocked on my door—with flowers—and a plan. “We’re going on a date,” he said. “You, me, and your mom.” What followed was a strange but beautiful day:
