I invited a man I’d been seeing—a 40-year-old engineer
I looked at him for a second, wondering if he was joking.
He wasn’t.
Victor took another bite and nodded to himself.
“The broth is decent,” he said. “Although I’d probably add another bay leaf.”
He reached for the sour cream.
“Did you make the garlic rolls yourself?”
“Yes.”
“They’re a little too soft. My mother lets hers brown a bit more.”
There it was again.
My mother.
My mother.
My mother.
I smiled politely.
“I see.”
He took my smile as encouragement.
“And one more thing…”
Of course there was.
“Borscht really tastes better on the second day. Fresh is okay, but it’s never as good as leftovers.”
I quietly folded my napkin onto the table.
“Victor,” I asked, “did your mother cook often?”
He looked surprised.
“Every day.”
“And your father?”
“What about him?”
“Did he cook?”
Victor laughed as if I’d asked whether his father knitted sweaters.
“No. Why would he?”
“I was just curious.”
He shrugged.
“My dad worked. Mom took care of the house. Everyone did what they were good at.”
I nodded slowly.
“And when your mother visited someone for dinner, did she arrive empty-handed?”
He frowned.
“Well… usually she’d bring something.”
“A dessert? Flowers?”
“Sure.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He blinked.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
“Why not?”
“You invited me.”
“I did.”
“So…”
He spread his hands as though the answer were obvious.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Victor, I spent most of today preparing this meal.”
“I can tell.”
“I cleaned the house.”
“It looks nice.”
“I shopped.”
“Good ingredients.”
“I cooked for hours.”
He nodded.
“That’s why I wanted to come.”
“And yet you couldn’t stop at a grocery store for five minutes and pick up flowers or even a small dessert?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“I didn’t think you’d care about that.”
“I don’t care about the price.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The thought.”
He sighed.
“I think people make too much of these social rules.”
I smiled again.
“Maybe.”
He seemed relieved.
“I knew you’d understand.”
“I do understand.”
I stood and began clearing the table.
He looked at his half-finished bowl.
“What about dessert?”
“I wasn’t planning to serve it.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“But you said we were having dinner.”
“We did.”
“I thought there’d be pie or something.”
“There is.”
I carried the soup bowls into the kitchen.
“I baked an apple pie this afternoon.”
His face brightened.
“So…”
“So I’ll enjoy it tomorrow.”
He laughed awkwardly.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Silence settled between us.
Finally he stood.
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“Maybe.”
“You seem upset over something small.”
“I don’t think it’s small.”
He grabbed his jacket.
“I’ve always believed people should appreciate honesty.”
“I appreciate honesty.”
“I was giving you constructive criticism.”
“I didn’t ask for a performance review.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
At the door he turned back.
“So… are you saying you don’t want to see me again?”
I answered honestly.
“I’m saying I don’t want to spend my Sundays cooking for someone who compares everything I do to his mother and forgets basic courtesy.”
He stared at me for a moment before quietly leaving.
After I closed the door, I poured myself a cup of tea, cut a generous slice of the still-warm apple pie, and sat by the window.
My phone buzzed half an hour later.
It was a message from Victor.
“I told my mom what happened. She says you overreacted.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
Then I replied with the only answer that felt appropriate.
“I’m glad you still have someone to cook dinner exactly the way you like it. I hope you both have a wonderful Sunday.”
I blocked his number, finished my pie, and realized something.
Dating after thirty-five isn’t about finding someone who’s perfect.
It’s about recognizing, sooner rather than later, who isn’t the right person for your table.