For a second, old habits stirred — the instinct to help, to prove myself, to be accommodating.
But I’m fifty-eight. I’ve raised children. I’ve cared for a sick husband. I’ve cooked, cleaned, and sacrificed for decades.
And that’s exactly why I wasn’t about to start again.
“David,” I said evenly, “I came for a date. Not a job interview.”
He looked genuinely confused. “There’s an apron over there. I need borscht, cutlets, and clean dishes. I want to see care. If you can’t handle this, what happens when I’m sick?”
It was manipulation, plain and simple.
“You don’t need a wife,” I told him calmly. “You need a housekeeper, a cook, and a nurse rolled into one.”
His expression hardened.
“You women just want restaurants,” he snapped.
“I didn’t apply for employment,” I replied. “And I’m not here to prove myself. I’ve already done forty years of that.”
I picked up the chocolates I had brought.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
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