When Ronny meets Denise for their first date, he’s shocked to find her mother, Claire, tagging along. Over dinner, Claire’s intrusive questions and expensive demands reveal their true intentions. But Ronny, quick-witted and unfazed, hilariously turns the tables on them both.
I’ve been on dating sites for a while and have been on a couple of dud dates.
The one I’m going to tell you about really takes the cake!
Denise and I matched a couple of weeks ago, and we instantly hit it off. She’s sweet and charming, and she says my stupid jokes make her laugh. It didn’t take long for me to ask her on a date.
We both have busy schedules but last weekend, they finally aligned.
We planned to meet at this trendy, upscale restaurant downtown.
I was so excited. I arrived early, as always. It’s a habit of mine, wanting to be the first one there to make a good impression.
As I waited, I took in the ambience—dim lighting, modern decor, the soft murmur of conversations around me. Perfect setting for a promising first date.
Then she walked in. But she wasn’t alone.
Next to her was an older woman, stylishly dressed, with a sharp gaze that could probably cut through steel.
My heart sank a little.
“Hey, Ronny! This is my mom, Claire!” Denise said with a big smile.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” I replied, hiding my shock as best I could.
Claire shook my hand with a grip that screamed authority. “Hello, Ronny.
I hope you don’t mind me joining you two tonight.”
“Of course not, the more the merrier,” I lied through my teeth, my mind racing.
My mind was doing cartwheels, trying to figure this weird situation out. I wondered if it was a test, but then I started thinking she’d brought her mom as backup, in case I turned out to be a creep. Fair enough.
Nobody can be too careful these days.
We sat down, and immediately, Claire took control of the conversation.
“So, Ronny, where do your parents work?” she asked, her eyes fixed on me like a hawk on a mouse.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, my mom’s a teacher and my dad’s an engineer. They’re both retired now, though.”
“Interesting.
And where do you live? Are you renting, or do you own your place?” she continued, not missing a beat.
“I stay in a small house,” I replied, starting to feel like I was on a job interview rather than a date.
“And what do you do for a living? How much do you make?” Claire’s questions were rapid-fire, each one more invasive than the last.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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