My fiancé’s mom was turning 60, and the whole family was buzzing. Whispers of a five-star restaurant, vintage champagne, and a guest list that included actual dignitaries. It felt incredibly exclusive, a world away from my own. I desperately wanted to be part of it, to truly belong to his family. A week before the dinner, he dropped a casual bomb. “Hey,” he began, scrolling on his phone, “my mom’s agreed to invite you.” My heart leaped. Finally! Acceptance! “But,” he continued, not looking up, “only if you agree to ONE CONDITION.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
He finally met my gaze, a nervous twitch in his eye. “Don’t be mad,” he pleaded, his voice softening. “It’s just a little thing. YOU’LL HAVE TO… pretend to be someone else for the night.”
My stomach dropped. Pretend? What on earth was he talking about?
He explained, rushing his words. “My mom, she has this… ideal. This perfect woman she always imagined I’d marry. The one who went to an Ivy League for art history, volunteers with endangered big cats, and wants to open a small, quaint gallery. She just loves that image. And I told her that was you. Just for tonight. Please?”
My breath hitched. My mind raced. I work in tech. I hate art history. I’m allergic to cats. This was a complete fabrication. A lie. I wanted to scream, to ask him how he could even suggest such a thing. How could he ask me to erase myself for his mother’s approval? But the look in his eyes, the sheer desperation to have me there, to finally bridge the gap between his world and mine… I just wanted to be enough for them. For him.
So I nodded. A slow, painful nod. “Okay,” I whispered, the word feeling like ash on my tongue. “Okay.”
The days leading up to the dinner were a blur of forced research. He coached me on artists, on the intricacies of gallery management, on the plight of various big cat species. He even bought me a discreet silver locket, just like “she” would wear, he said. Every piece of it felt like a costume, slowly suffocating the real me. I practiced my smile in the mirror, the confident, cultured smile of someone I wasn’t. My own reflection looked like a stranger, polished and empty.
The night of the dinner arrived, a dazzling, terrifying spectacle. The restaurant glowed with soft lighting and hushed conversations. His mother, a formidable woman with eyes that seemed to miss nothing, greeted me with a surprisingly warm hug. “Ah, my little art connoisseur,” she purred, pulling back to study me. “You look absolutely radiant.” My carefully constructed smile felt glued to my face.
Throughout the meal, I performed. I nodded sagely when someone spoke of Impressionism. I feigned passionate concern for jaguars when a distant cousin mentioned their trip to the Amazon. I even managed to invent a few anecdotes about my “dream gallery” location. Each lie was a tiny splinter in my soul, but the proud look on his face, the way his mother kept complimenting my “elegance” and “refined taste,” made me push through the shame. This was for us. For our future.
Towards the end of the evening, his mother raised her glass, her gaze sweeping over the table. “To family,” she announced, her voice strong, “and to good matches. It’s so lovely to finally have someone at this table who truly understands my son.” She looked directly at me, a knowing glint in her eyes. “You know, dear,” she continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “you really are quite good at this. Almost as good as the last one he brought. The one who also loved art history and dreamt of a gallery.”
My breath hitched. The last one? My eyes darted to him. His face had gone pale.
His mother, seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension, took a slow sip of her champagne. Then she leaned closer, a faint, cruel smile playing on her lips. “He never quite got over her, you see. My beautiful, artistic daughter-in-law-to-be, the one with the actual big cat sanctuary on her family estate. He’s been trying to recreate her ever since she left him at the altar. You’re doing admirably, of course. For a temporary placeholder. But I’m still holding out hope for the real one to come back.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. The champagne glass in my hand trembled. EVERY SINGLE DETAIL WAS HERS. Not some abstract ideal. Not a test. I was not playing a role. I was auditioning to be a copy. A stand-in. A ghost. I wasn’t marrying him; I was marrying his broken dream of someone else. My entire relationship, our entire future, was a lie. A cruel, elaborate, family-sanctioned deception. My head swam. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to SCREAM. I wanted to disappear. I just sat there, my smile shattered, surrounded by all those perfect, judging eyes.
