I’m 27, and I’ve never been lucky in love. So when I matched with her and everything clicked, it felt unreal. Conversation flowed. We laughed. After a few great dates, I asked her to be my girlfriend. She said yes—and suggested I meet her family.
I took that as a good sign.
She mentioned it would impress them if I paid for dinner. I pictured parents, maybe a little awkwardness. Fair enough.
But when we got to the restaurant, my stomach dropped.
A long table of relatives waited—cousins, aunt, uncle—staring at me like I was late to an audition. No one asked me a thing. I felt like a wallet with legs.
Then the ordering began: expensive steaks, seafood, bottles. I tried to catch her eye, to slow this down. She ignored me.
The bill came. $400.
I said I wouldn’t cover everyone. Her smile vanished. The table turned icy.
They hadn’t come to meet me. They came to eat.
As we argued, the waiter slipped me a note: She’s not who she says she is.
In the bathroom, he told me he’d seen her do this before—with other dates.
I paid my part and slipped out the side exit.
At home I blocked her. Later, I searched her name and found warnings, stories, patterns.
For once, I walked away before it cost me more than money.
