Share This Article
Looking back, perhaps I shouldn’t have met the parents of my (now ex-) boyfriend of a month-and-a-half that early into ‘officialdom’. We had met through a pretentious university society, and I didn’t actually have anything in common with him. But he was supposed to be my first ‘proper relationship’, and I thought being introduced to the family was a sign he was ‘the one’.
So I happily took the train to where he lived – a delightful town south of Buckinghamshire – met him at the station, and walked through Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award-esque fields to reach his beautiful suburban home.
But once we arrived, his parents – ironically – were not home yet. So we spent the time going through his baby photos, playing boardgames, watching a movie, and French-kissing (how else?) on the sofa with increasing force, arms wrapped around each other… This was the exact point at which his dad opened the living-room door. It became obvious to us that it was already too late. I had to quickly extricate myself from that intimate interaction, and smile innocently at my boyfriend’s dad as we shuffled ourselves back to a socially acceptable distance from each other. His dad stood there and curtly announced that dinner was ready.
I was extremely preoccupied with my prudish embarrassment for the duration of the entire dinner conversation, which took place immediately after the shameful encounter. His mother had cooked an entire beef wellington with beetroot salad, gave us glasses of sparkling wine, and even offered a chocolate dessert. I was very thankful for her cooking, but the truth was that I had really hoped for something more low-key. It was one of those proper dinners for a proper introduction to a proper relationship – which ours clearly wasn’t.
Two weeks after we had broken up, my ex messaged me again asking to meet up, just to talk things through at a drab coffee chain and exchange phone chargers. Before we parted ways, he said earnestly: “Here, this is from my mum. She wanted you to have it.”
He handed me a giant, glittery gold box of panettone. It was worth meeting for that, at least.
Enjoyed this article? Read more here: My worst period