Adrian, all smiles, introduced them like it was a game show reveal: “Preston and Vera!” Vera scanned me like I was a stain on her couture dress. In the pantry, I hissed, “Why didn’t you call?” Adrian brushed it off—“Preston likes real, average homes. Just be yourself.”
Dinner was a disaster in slow motion. Vera mocked my chili as “aromatic,” Adrian laughed too loudly, and every comment about my “rustic cooking” or “comfortable outfit” felt like a jab. Even my kids’ glitter-covered crafts became a punchline.
Adrian, trying to charm them, joined in. “Emma doesn’t care for fashion—two kids, right?” he said, like being a mom made me lesser. I stayed silent, humiliated, while they poked fun at my home and my efforts.
After they left, Adrian grinned. “It went well, right?” I didn’t answer. I quietly stacked the dishes, hands trembling—not from the work, but from the realization: I wasn’t going to be the joke in my own home ever again.
