I always knew I had a mother, but growing up, it often felt like she was more than that—she was my entire universe. Even at the age of thirty-seven, she never missed a day without calling to check on me, asking the same questions as if on a loop, never quite convinced I could manage life on my own.

I had everything I thought would earn me her trust: a stable job at a museum, a deep love for art history, two college degrees, my own apartment, and a solid bank account. Still, every time her name popped up on my phone, I found myself unconsciously straightening up, as though she could see through the screen. She had opinions about everything—what time I should sleep, what I should eat, even what nail polish color was acceptable. And then came Theo. Meeting him changed everything. For the first time in my life, I kept something from my mom. That secret lasted exactly three days. The night Theo came over, I was buzzing with nervous excitement.

I’d baked a pie using a random online recipe—not one from Mom’s sacred cookbook—and while it turned out a little burnt and the chicken slightly dry, they were my choices, my imperfections, and I was proud of them. A week earlier, Mom had insisted she meet Theo in person, at her house, across her dining table, armed with her questions. I pushed back, telling her I would decide when the time was right. She relented—surprisingly—but I should’ve known better. That night, Theo arrived with tulips, non-alcoholic wine because he knew I’d had a long workday, and a cake from my favorite bakery. My heart softened at his thoughtfulness.

We talked about everything, laughed like teenagers, and slowly unraveled our stories to one another. With candles flickering and music playing softly in the background, Theo gently took my hand and said, “After all the heartbreaks, I didn’t think I’d feel this again… and then you came along.” And that’s when it happened. A loud sneeze—“ACHOO!”—from inside the closet.

Theo froze and asked, “Are we not alone?” I rushed over, flung open the door, and there she was. My mom. Sitting in the dark, headlamp on, clutching a thermos. “What are you doing?!” I cried. “Just making sure,” she said defensively. “I was listening, evaluating. I didn’t interfere!” Theo, somehow keeping his composure, smiled and said, “Good evening. I’m Theo. Nice to meet you.” And just like that, the interrogation began. Theo looked at me with an expression that screamed, Is this real life? I answered with my own look: Yep, this is it. Then she stood up and announced a test. “Wipe the table. No streaks. If you leave one mark, you’re not good enough for her.” I wanted to disappear, but to my utter disbelief, Theo grabbed a sponge and wiped the table to perfection. She inspected it, nodded, and then handed him a folded piece of paper. His smile faded as he read it, then silently gave it to me and left. The paper read: RULES FOR DATING MY DAUGHTER: Have a job. Understand I don’t like you. I am EVERYWHERE. Make her cry, I make you cry. Be home 30 minutes early. SHE is my princess, not your conquest. I don’t mind going to jail. Three days passed with no word. Then I finally texted: “I’m sorry for how things went. You didn’t deserve that.” He saw it but didn’t reply. Until, suddenly, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and there was Theo with flowers. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve planned a date—for you and your mom.” The first stop was his lecture on love in literature. We sat in the back as he spoke passionately. Mom whispered, “If he’s trying to win us both over with Shakespeare, it’s not working.” I rolled my eyes but stayed. The next surprise was a boat ride on a serene lake with a plaid blanket, strawberries, and her favorite tea. She didn’t smile—but I saw her eyes soften. Then dinner at his place, filled with the scent of cedar and citrus. As he grilled steaks on the terrace, she finally exhaled. When he returned with plates, he knelt down and proposed. Before I could answer, Mom whispered, “Sweetheart, I’d have said yes already.” Through tears and laughter, I replied, “Yes. Of course—yes!”