“I’m a presentable man. I need to look the part, so buy me a suit,” my 53-year-old fiancé announced before meeting my children.
Meeting the children from a first marriage is always a test. But I never imagined the biggest problem would not be my twenty-two-year-old son’s jealousy, or my college-aged daughter’s sharp, assessing looks. No. The problem turned out to be my boyfriend’s wardrobe. More precisely, his sudden passion for expensive fashion — paid for by someone else.
I am forty-eight, long divorced, and I work as a chief accountant at a respectable company. I have my own apartment, drive a good car, and have already raised and educated my children. At this stage of life, I finally felt I could simply live for myself.
That was exactly when Valera appeared.
Valera was fifty-three. We met in the most ordinary way — at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He knew how to court a woman beautifully: he held my coat, said all the right things about family values, and brought me one fresh burgundy rose on every date.
He worked as an administrator at some car dealership. He was not exactly a high-flyer, but he seemed reliable and neat. His shoes were always polished, and his cologne smelled pleasant, not like cheap aftershave.
After three months of dating, we decided it was time to move to the next stage. Valera gently hinted that he was tired of being alone in his small bachelor apartment on the outskirts of town and wanted the warmth of a real home. I did not object. But before letting a man into my life and my home, I needed him to meet my children. For me, that was essential.
We agreed on Sunday dinner. I planned the menu myself: roast duck, salads, and my son’s favorite pie. Valera was supposed to arrive at five in the evening.
On Thursday evening, we were sitting in my kitchen drinking tea while I talked about the food. Valera looked unusually thoughtful. He stared out the window for a while, then sighed heavily, pushed his cup aside, and delivered a speech I will never forget.
“Marina, I’ve been thinking about Sunday,” he began carefully. “You see, your children are young and modern. They’ll definitely be judging me. Scanning me from head to toe, so to speak. They’ll want to see what kind of man their mother has chosen.”
“Well, that’s natural,” I said with a shrug. “Don’t worry. My children are well-mannered. They won’t examine you under a microscope. The main thing is that you’re a decent person.”
“No, you don’t understand male psychology,” Valera said, shaking his head with a patronizing look. “A man is judged by his status. I’m a striking man. I have presence. I have posture. But my formal suit… let’s say it has become outdated. And going to such an important family meeting in a sweater would show disrespect to your family. I need to look like a man in control. Like someone who can protect you and provide stability. I need to match the occasion.”
I listened and, at first, even agreed with him. It sounded reasonable. He was nervous and wanted to make a good impression.
“Then buy yourself a new one,” I said calmly. “There are sales at the mall right now. We can find you a nice jacket and trousers.”
Valera went silent. He looked at me as if I had suggested he walk to the moon. Then he leaned forward, covered my hand with his, and said in a deep, heartfelt tone:
“Marina… a good Italian suit costs around seventy thousand now. Plus shoes. I don’t have that kind of spare money at the moment. You know I just had my car repaired, and I sent child support to my younger son from my first marriage. But this is about meeting your children. In fact, this is mainly for your authority in their eyes. They need to see that their mother hasn’t brought just anyone into her home, but a respectable man. So it would be fair and logical if you paid for this purchase.”
Silence filled the kitchen. Only the refrigerator hummed in the background.
I stared at him, trying to process what I had just heard.
A fifty-three-year-old man was sitting at my table, drinking my tea, and seriously explaining that I should buy him an Italian suit for seventy thousand so he could sit on my sofa, eat my roast duck, and pretend to be a wealthy, respectable gentleman in front of my children — even though he was nothing of the sort.
“So,” I said slowly, pronouncing every word clearly, “you want me to dress you at my expense so you can impress my children with a fake image?”
“Why fake?” Valera said, offended, pressing his lips together as he noticed the change in my tone. “It’s an investment in our shared image. I’m not asking for myself. I’m doing this for us! You’re a financially comfortable woman. That amount is nothing for you. But imagine how good we’ll look together. I even found one in a boutique on the second floor. Dark blue. It suits me very well.”
I looked at this “striking man” and felt the illusion fall away from my eyes.
The reliable partner I had imagined disappeared. In front of me sat an aging boy who had never grown wiser, looking not for a woman, but for a sponsor-mother with cooking skills and available living space.
The funniest part was that he truly believed he was right. He was trying to sell me the privilege of having him in my life. His logic was flawless in its arrogance: I was supposed to pay for the honor of presenting him to my children.
“You know, Valera,” I said, carefully pulling my hand out from under his. “My children really are modern and intelligent. And they know perfectly well that their mother does not financially support grown men.”
“What does supporting me have to do with it?” Valera’s voice cracked. Red spots appeared on his face. “I’m talking about status! About family! And you reduce everything to money! Mercenary, just like all women! I come to you with my whole heart, and you regret spending a little money on the man you love!”
“Have you finished your tea?” I asked in a completely even voice, standing up from the table. “Then get ready to leave. Sunday dinner is canceled. And so are all future dinners. You’ll have to maintain your status at your own expense and on your own territory.”
He left loudly. He slammed the door and muttered something about strong women being doomed to loneliness because they don’t know how to respect masculine nature. He also said I would regret losing such an impressive gentleman.
I never regretted it.
On Sunday, my children and I had a wonderful evening. We ate roast duck, drank wine, and I told them the whole story. My son laughed so hard he nearly choked, and my daughter calmly remarked that dark blue only suits men who still have a conscience.
Now, whenever I hear men say things like “I’m a presentable man” or “a woman should,” my inner alarm immediately goes off. Many women my age are afraid of being alone, and men like this know exactly how to use that fear. These “impressive gentlemen” are not looking for love. They are looking for a warm place to settle in — and, apparently, a free wardrobe.
Dear readers, tell me honestly: am I the only one who attracts these “investors in a shared image”? Or have you also met grown men who believe a woman should pay extra just for the privilege of having them around?