Mother's Bad Date May 2026

“Surprise me.”

His name was Gary. Gary sold ergonomic office chairs. He showed up fifteen minutes late with a carnation so wilted it looked like it had already been apologized to. My mother, ever the optimist, tucked it into her hair anyway. She wore her good earrings—the silver ones shaped like crescent moons. mother's bad date

She was back by 8:47.

“Next time,” she said, finishing the last of the pistachio, “I’m bringing you. You can make faces at him from across the table.” “Surprise me

I knew it was bad before she even opened the door. I heard the sigh—the particular sigh of a woman who has just watched a man eat soup with a dessert spoon. She walked in, kicked off her heels, and went straight to the freezer for the emergency pint of pistachio ice cream. My mother, ever the optimist, tucked it into her hair anyway