Chrissie was a cute, blonde, 30-something, looking of love in all the wrong places.
She dated a boy in college for three years and it “didn’t work out.” After grad school, she met “the love of her life” and they eventually moved in together. A year later, she met his mother who slowly, subtly, quizzed Chrissie on her family, her up bringing, and her values.
As she skated on thin ice, Chrissie tried to paint a Norman Rockwell Life story. The holes in her story were so big you could drive a Tesla through them. Chrissie had told her “perfect life story” so many times, it tripped lightly off her tongue. Until she met “his mother.”
The Maybe-a-Mother-in-law was curious. He son had advised her, “Do not ask about her mother. Please.” Naturally, that was the first thing she wanted to inquire about. She approached the subject in the most strategic fashion – she danced around light questions about schools, degrees, goals, and where Chrissie’s family lived. There was no doubt who was in control of this “chat.”
Chrissie was quite adroit at avoiding questions and launching into stories-to-distract.
Finally, the woman who’s only son was living with a mystery girl asked the big question, “Where does your mother live?”
Chrissie said her mother lived in another part of the state. Really? Curious Mother lobbed easy questions: Where? What does she do? How often do you see her? When will we meet her?
Caught in a sticky web of lies...it was hard to keep up with the insightful, incisive questions, Chrissie left the room on the pretense of getting more water. She found her beau, grabbed his arm, and told him to tell his mother to cease and desist or she would leave the apartment and go for a drive. A long drive.
He sat close to his mother on the couch and begged her not to ask any more questions. He agreed, his girl friend’s family tree was unusual; Chrissie did not speak to many relatives. She was simply “independent.”
He left to find his sweetheart and like any good mother, she began to Google Chrissie.