I’m 25, and I’ve been on enough dating apps to know that expectations and reality rarely line up. Still, when I matched with David, he seemed… fine. His profile said he was 30—older than me, but not by much. He was confident, articulate, and suggested a classy restaurant for our first date. The kind with dim lighting, cloth napkins, and prices that quietly make your stomach tighten.
Before we even met, he insisted, “Don’t worry about money. I’ve got it.”
That alone should’ve been my first clue.
I still ordered carefully. The cheapest entrée. One drink. No dessert. I’ve never liked feeling indebted to someone I barely know, especially on a first date. The conversation was decent—nothing spectacular, nothing alarming. He talked a lot about his career, his opinions, his standards. I nodded, smiled, asked questions. It felt more like an interview than a connection, but I’ve sat through worse.
At one point, casually, the topic of age came up. I mentioned—calmly, honestly—that I usually don’t date men much older than me. I didn’t accuse him. I didn’t insult him. I just stated a preference, the same way people talk about wanting kids or not liking smokers.
He smiled, but something shifted. His jaw tightened. His answers got shorter. When the check came, he waved it away dramatically and paid without hesitation. We said goodbye outside, exchanged a polite hug, and I went home thinking, Well, that was fine. Probably won’t see him again.
I was wrong.
Later that night, my phone rang from an unknown number. Against my better judgment, I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice came through—tight, controlled, and very, very certain of herself.
“This is David’s mother.”
I actually laughed at first. I thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
She explained that David had come home deeply upset. Apparently, my comment about not dating older men had “hurt his feelings.” According to her, if I wasn’t “serious about him,” then it was inappropriate for me to accept a free dinner. She said the fair thing—the right thing—would be for me to reimburse half the cost.
I stood in my kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, staring at the wall. I didn’t know what stunned me more: the fact that a 38-year-old man ran to his mother after a date… or that she thought calling me was reasonable.
Yes. Thirty-eight.
That’s when she corrected me. Apparently, David wasn’t 30 at all.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I didn’t defend myself. I just felt tired. Tired of entitlement. Tired of emotional manipulation wrapped in politeness. Tired of being made responsible for a grown man’s fragile ego.
So I sent the money.
And in the transfer note, I wrote exactly what he deserved to read: “Buy yourself the most expensive pacifier you can find.”
Then I blocked both numbers, deleted the app for a while, and made myself a cup of tea.
Because if a man needs his mother to invoice women for rejected feelings… He’s not looking for a partner. He’s looking for a babysitter.