“She’s the Host, You’re Just a Guest,” Matthew Said Coldly

The first time I met Matthew’s parents, I was nervous. He had always spoken of them with a mix of reverence and frustration, the way one might talk about a beloved, if somewhat overbearing, antique. His mother, Violet, was particularly daunting with her immaculate home and her precise way of speaking.

We drove to his parents’ house in the suburbs, a place where every lawn was manicured to perfection. Matthew had been living there since he graduated from college, saving money while working at a local tech firm. He had his own space in the basement, which he jokingly called “the cave,” but it was clear he was comfortable there.

As we walked up the driveway, Matthew squeezed my hand. “Just follow my lead,” he whispered. I nodded, trying to calm the flutter in my stomach.

Violet opened the door before we could even knock. “Matthew! And you must be Ruby,” she said, her voice warm but her eyes scrutinizing. I smiled, extending my hand, which she took with a firm grip. “Come in, come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

The house was as pristine inside as it was outside. We were led through a living room that looked more like a showroom, with every cushion and frame in its ordained place. Dinner was served in a dining room adorned with heavy drapes and a chandelier that cast soft light over the polished wood table.

Throughout dinner, the conversation flowed relatively smoothly. Violet asked about my job at the marketing firm, and her husband, Joshua, chimed in with stories from his days in advertising. But there was an underlying tension, a sense of being evaluated that never quite left the room.

After dessert, a homemade apple pie that Violet insisted was a simple family recipe, Matthew and I helped clear the table. That’s when he said it, his voice dropping so only I could hear. “She’s the host, you’re just a guest,” he murmured, a cold edge to his words that I hadn’t expected.

I paused, a plate in my hand, and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Just… don’t get too comfortable. This isn’t your home.” His eyes flicked toward the living room where his parents were chatting, oblivious to our exchange.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. I felt like an outsider, a temporary fixture in Matthew’s perfectly curated life. The drive back to the city was quiet, the air between us thick with unspoken words.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed a change in Matthew. He became more distant, his visits less frequent. When I confronted him, he admitted he wasn’t sure about us moving in together, about changing the comfortable life he had at his parents’ house.

I realized then that I would always be a guest in his life, never quite part of the family, never quite part of his future. We parted ways not long after, the love we thought would last not strong enough to bridge the gap between his world and mine.