I dated an ordinary man, he was cozy and stable. He said he loved me, bought me presents. Six months into the relationship, he suggested we move in together. I’m happy, arranging the furniture in my mind. And he was like, “But would you mind if my mom moved in with us too?”

I blinked, smiled automatically, thinking he was joking. Then I realized he wasn’t. His eyes were serious, his tone casual, like he was asking if I could pass the salt.

He went on to explain. His mom, Doreen, was getting older. She didn’t want to live alone. And he couldn’t afford two rents. Plus, “She’s super chill,” he added. “You’ll love her.”

I hesitated. I liked him, a lot. He’d been good to me. The kind of guy who remembered if I had a bad day and brought me soup when I had cramps. That kind of good. So I agreed. I told myself it would be fine. Temporary, even.

We found a two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs, light pouring in through big windows, wood floors, tiny balcony. I made peace with the fact that this wasn’t just “our” place.