From the moment I stepped into his parents’ home, I felt the shift. His mother’s eyes lingered too long, cataloging my clothes, my posture, my ease, as if searching for a flaw that would justify her conclusions. Her assessment was swift and unkind, delivered not directly but loud enough to ensure it reached me, as though audibility were part of the message. She spoke about girls like me in a tone reserved for warnings, not introductions, implying motive without evidence, desire without substance.
Daniel stood beside me, silent, his body angled slightly away, as if neutrality were safer than loyalty. Throughout dinner, the questions came one after another, dressed as conversation but sharpened by suspicion. Where did I live. What did I drive. Did I have debts. What did my parents do. Each inquiry carried an unspoken verdict, each answer weighed against a standard I had never agreed to be measured by. When I mentioned my car, his mother smiled thinly, praising modesty in a way that felt less like approval and more like relief.
