Some daughters get jewelry for their birthdays. I got a mother who installed a nanny cam in my fruit bowl. “It’s decorative!” she claimed when Theo found it. That’s how our relationship began – with my boyfriend and my mom locked in psychological warfare.
Her handwritten dating contract would make a mob boss blush: “Rule #7: Any breakup requires six months’ notice and a notarized apology.” Theo signed it in fake blood. I nearly died.
When he vanished for three days post-interrogation, I assumed he’d fled the country. Instead, he was planning the world’s weirdest courtship – a triple date with me and my mom. We suffered through his lecture on medieval love poetry (Mom threw paper airplanes), nearly drowned during her “accidental” swim (Theo rescued her despite her trying to dunk him), and watched her scale a climbing wall while shouting death threats.
Theo’s genius? He understood my mom wasn’t a villain – just a lonely woman who’d been hurt. When he proposed on his knees, she yelled “Say yes already!” before I could answer. Now they text each other gardening tips while I roll my eyes. Who knew love would look like this?
