When my husband brought his boss and his wife home without warning, I was in old leggings, covered in chili splatter, and knee-deep in meal prep and kids’ homework. It was chaos, not company-ready.Adrian introduced them with flair: “Preston and Vera!” Vera gave me a once-over like I was a stain on her couture. In the pantry, I hissed, “Why didn’t you call?” But Adrian waved it off—*“Preston likes real, average homes. Just be yourself.”*
Dinner unraveled fast. Vera mocked my chili as *“aromatic,”* and every word about my *“rustic cooking”* or *“comfortable outfit”* stung. Even my kids’ crafts became jokes. Adrian laughed with them.Trying to impress, he added, *“Emma doesn’t care for fashion—two kids, right?”* Like motherhood excused me from dignity. I stayed quiet, humiliated, as they made sport of my home, my food, my life.
After they left, Adrian beamed: *“It went well, right?”* I didn’t reply. I stacked dishes in silence, hands trembling—not from exhaustion, but from a new promise to myself: I’d never be the punchline again.
