A Suitor (32) Decided to Introduce Me to His Parents. His Father Spent the Whole Evening Mocking Me, While His Mother Quietly Giggled…
Denis and I had been dating for four months. He was thirty-two, and he seemed like a serious, calm man, even a little gentle. He said that family was sacred to him. So when he invited me to dinner to meet his parents, I was terribly nervous. I bought a nice cake, put on a modest but elegant dress, and went over all the rules of etiquette in my head.
Denis’s parents lived in a solid country house. His father, Viktor Petrovich, met us at the door. A large, loud man with a sharp, piercing взгляд. His mother, Irina Sergeyevna, a small, fussy woman, hovered behind his back.
“Well, come in, bride-to-be,” his father boomed, without even saying hello. “Oh, Denchik, why is she so skinny? Haven’t you tried feeding her? Or is looking like a plank fashionable these days?”
Irina Sergeyevna giggled into her fist.
“Oh, Vitya, honestly, the things you say… Come in, Yanochka.”
It stung, but I smiled. Maybe that was just his rough sense of humor. We sat down at the table. And that was when the one-man show began.
First, his father went after my job. I’m an HR manager.
“HR, huh? That’s the one where you shuffle papers around and fire people, right? Very useful profession, I must say. Not like us factory workers, breaking our backs. Young people these days are all the same—just looking for an excuse to sit in an office and wear out their pants.”
Denis said nothing, staring down at his salad. His mother poured tea and smiled.
“Eat up, Vitenka, eat up.”
Then he moved on to my education, my car (“a little woman’s tin can”), and even my hometown.
“Oh, so you came here from the provinces?” Viktor Petrovich squinted as he poured himself a shot. “I see, came to conquer the capital, did you? Well, our Denis has an apartment, so he’s quite a catch. Watch it, Den—register her there and you’ll never get rid of her. Those girls from out of town are very calculating.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat. I looked at Denis. I was waiting for him to say, “Dad, stop, that’s rude.” Or change the subject. Or at least take my hand. But Denis just sat there with his head sunk into his shoulders and… gave a crooked smile.
“Dad, come on,” he muttered. “Yana’s nice.”
“They’re all nice until there’s a ring on their finger!” his father roared with laughter. “And then—bang!—the mother-in-law’s on the doorstep with suitcases. Right, mother?”
Irina Sergeyevna giggled again, gazing at her husband with devotion.
“Oh, Vitya, you’re such a joker! Yanochka, please don’t be offended. That’s just his style, he’s the life of the party!”
Meanwhile, the “life of the party” reached his fork toward my plate.
“Why aren’t you eating the meat? Watching your figure? Eat up, come on, or you won’t be able to give birth. We need healthy grandchildren, not some pale little moth like this.”
And then he poked at my piece of meat with his fork, checking how well it was cooked.
And that was when I couldn’t take it anymore…
We had been dating for four months. Denis was thirty-two, and he had seemed like a serious, calm man to me, even a little gentle. He used to say that family was sacred to him. So when he invited me to dinner to meet his parents, I was terribly nervous. I bought a nice cake, put on a modest but elegant dress, and mentally went over all the rules of etiquette.
Denis’s parents lived in a solid country house. His father, Viktor Petrovich, met us at the door. He was a large, loud man with a piercing взгляд. His mother, Irina Sergeyevna, a small, fussy woman, hovered behind his back.
“Well, come on in, bride-to-be,” his father boomed without even saying hello. “Oh, Denchik, why is she so skinny? Haven’t you tried feeding her? Or is looking like a plank fashionable now?”
Irina Sergeyevna giggled into her fist.
“Oh, Vitya, honestly… Come in, Yanochka.”
It stung, but I smiled. Maybe that was just his rough sense of humor. We sat down at the table. And then the one-man show began.
First, his father took a swipe at my job. I’m an HR manager.
“An HR lady, huh? One of those people who just shuffle papers and fire others? Very useful profession, I must say. Not like us factory workers, breaking our backs. Young people these days are all the same, just looking for a cushy office chair to sit in.”
Denis said nothing, staring down at his salad. His mother poured tea and smiled.
“Eat up, Vitenka, eat up.”
Then he went after my education, my car (“a woman’s little tin can”), and even my hometown.
“Oh, so you came from the provinces?” Viktor Petrovich narrowed his eyes as he poured himself a shot. “I see, so you came to conquer Moscow. Well, Denis has an apartment, so he’s a good catch. Careful, Den, once you register her there, you’ll never get rid of her. Those girls from out of town are resourceful.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat. I looked at Denis. I was waiting for him to say, “Dad, stop, that’s rude.” Or to change the subject. Or at least take my hand. But Denis just sat there with his head hunched into his shoulders and… gave a crooked smile.
“Dad, come on,” he muttered. “Yana’s nice.”
“They’re all nice until there’s a ring on the finger!” his father roared with laughter. “And then bam, the mother-in-law’s at the door with suitcases. Right, dear?”
Irina Sergeyevna giggled again, gazing at her husband with devotion.
“Oh, Vitya, you’re such a joker! Yanochka, don’t be offended, that’s just his style. He’s the life of the party!”
Meanwhile, this “life of the party” reached over with his fork toward my plate.
“Why aren’t you eating the meat? Watching your figure? Go on, eat, or you won’t be able to have children. We need healthy grandchildren, not some pale moth like this.”
And he poked my piece of meat with his fork, checking how well it was cooked.
And that was when I couldn’t take it anymore. I realized that in front of me was not some “joker,” but an ordinary domestic bully who was used to asserting himself at other people’s expense. His wife was a spineless shadow who played along so she wouldn’t become the next target. And my Denis was a coward, terrified of Daddy to the point of trembling knees, willing to let him humiliate his woman as long as there was no scandal.
I carefully set down my cutlery. Dabbed my lips with a napkin. Then I stood up.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said loudly and clearly. “The meat is very tasty. But the atmosphere here, forgive me, is rotten.”
“What?” Viktor Petrovich choked. “How dare you talk like that, girl? Can’t you take a joke?”
“I understand humor, Viktor Petrovich. What I do not understand is rudeness and bad manners. And I have no intention of tolerating them.”
I went out into the hallway and started getting dressed. Denis rushed after me, pale, his eyes wide with panic.
“Yana, what are you doing? Where are you going? Dad’s just joking! Come back, this is awkward, they’ll be offended!”
“What’s awkward, Denis, is sleeping on the ceiling. But sitting there and listening to your girlfriend being called a ‘moth’ and a ‘scheming provincial girl’ while you sit there silently eating—that’s what should be shameful.”
“Well, he’s an adult! Couldn’t you just put up with it for my sake?”
“For your sake?” I looked at him with pity. “Denis, if at thirty-two you still can’t shut down a rude man to protect your woman, then you and I have no future. Stay with your father. Apparently, he hasn’t finished raising you yet. Though honestly, you could still use some more lessons from him!”
And I left. Denis called me afterward, saying I was “too sensitive” and that I had “ruined the evening.” But I blocked his number. I have no desire to join a family where humiliation is served for dessert and the men hide under the table.
Let’s break down this absurd family theater:
The father is the aggressor. Viktor Petrovich is a classic narcissistic abuser. His “jokes” are a way of testing boundaries. He probes: “Can I hit with words? Did she swallow it? Great, then I can hit harder.” His goal is not to amuse, but to dominate and humiliate.
The mother is the accomplice. Irina Sergeyevna’s laughter is a defense mechanism. She adapted long ago to life with a tyrant by following the principle of “As long as it’s not me.” By giggling along, she joins the aggressor in order to feel safe. This is called identification with the aggressor.
The son is the victim. Denis is the saddest figure of all. He didn’t fail to defend you because he didn’t want to. He failed because he has been psychologically emasculated by his father. For him, his father is a terrifying, towering figure. He is used to enduring it and believes that you should endure it too for the sake of “peace in the family.”
You did not just save yourself from an unpleasant father-in-law. You saved yourself from a husband who, in any conflict, would always sacrifice you just to avoid upsetting Daddy. In that family, you would have been a permanent punching bag.