…I narrowed my eyes. “What *thing*, Jake?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “You just have to wear something *simple*. Like, really simple. No makeup. Hair natural. Mom said you tend to… attract attention.”
I laughed, thinking it was a joke.
He didn’t laugh back.
“She doesn’t want you to… *outshine* her,” he added quickly. “She’s really sensitive about this being *her night*. You know how she gets.”
Oh, I knew. The first time I met his mom, she complimented me by saying I had “a nice face—for someone who didn’t grow up with wealth.” At Thanksgiving, she “accidentally” switched my gluten-free dish with regular stuffing and then told me I should just “build a stronger stomach.”
But this? This was next level.
“So,” I said slowly, “your mother’s *condition* for letting me attend *your family’s* dinner is that I dress down and look plain, just so I don’t *ruin* her night with my existence?”
“She didn’t say it like that,” Jake muttered, not meeting my eyes.
“No,” I said, rising from the couch. “*You* did.”
He followed me around the apartment, backpedaling. “Come on, don’t make a big deal out of this. It’s one night. Just wear something… modest.”
“No,” I snapped. “It’s not just one night. It’s a preview of what my life would be like if I married into this family. Constantly shrinking myself so your mom doesn’t feel threatened. And you? You’re enabling it.”
Jake opened his mouth, but I was already reaching for my bag.
“You go to your mom’s Oscars night,” I told him. “Wear something *simple*—you’re the one who’s clearly not equipped for anything bold.”
And with that, I walked out.
Later that night, I posted a picture of myself at a rooftop dinner with my best friends. Red dress, bold lipstick, and a smile that said, *I don’t need permission to shine.*
