My discomfort grew, but I hoped the interrogation would end. It didn’t.

She kept asking—about my past relationships, my parents, health issues in the family, my views on alcohol, debt, children. I answered briefly, holding myself together. Daniel said nothing, eyes fixed on his plate.

Then, after about thirty minutes, she said something that made everything clear.

“So, do you have children?”

“No,” I replied. “And I think that’s private.”

“That’s not private,” she snapped. “You live with my son. We need to know what to expect. He wants a family—his own children. Not someone else’s. You’ll need to see a doctor and bring certificates proving you’re healthy and capable of giving me grandchildren. You’ll pay for the tests yourself.”

I looked at Daniel, waiting for him to step in. He just shrugged.

“Mom’s worried,” he said quietly. “Maybe you should do it. It’ll put everyone at ease.”

In that moment, I understood exactly where I stood.

I got up from the table.

“Where are you going?” his mother asked sharply. “We’re not finished.”

“I am,” I said calmly. “It was nice meeting you, but this will be our last.”

I went to the hallway. Daniel followed.

“You’re overreacting,” he said. “Mom just wants what’s best for me.”

“No,” I replied, putting on my coat. “Your mother wants a servant, not a partner—and you’re fine with that. I’m not.”

I packed my things—there weren’t many—and went home, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief.

Later, he called and texted, saying I was dramatic and that “normal women” know how to adapt to a man’s family. I didn’t argue.

I was only grateful that this happened now—before a wedding, before years of my life were tied to that kind of future.

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