When my husband brought his boss and his wife home without warning, I was in old leggings, covered in chili splatter, and knee-deep in meal prep and kids’ homework. It was chaos, not company-ready.

Adrian, all smiles, introduced them like it was a game show reveal: “Preston and Vera!” Vera scanned me like I was a stain on her couture dress. In the pantry, I hissed, “Why didn’t you call?” Adrian brushed it off—“Preston likes real, average homes. Just be yourself.”

Dinner was a disaster in slow motion. Vera mocked my chili as “aromatic,” Adrian laughed too loudly, and every comment about my “rustic cooking” or “comfortable outfit” felt like a jab. Even my kids’ glitter-covered crafts became a punchline.

Adrian, trying to charm them, joined in. “Emma doesn’t care for fashion—two kids, right?” he said, like being a mom made me lesser. I stayed silent, humiliated, while they poked fun at my home and my efforts.

After they left, Adrian grinned. “It went well, right?” I didn’t answer. I quietly stacked the dishes, hands trembling—not from the work, but from the realization: I wasn’t going to be the joke in my own home ever again.