After Our First Date, an Unknown Number Called Me—It Was His Mother Asking for Money

I’m twenty-five, and after enough time on dating apps, I’ve learned that profiles and real life rarely match up. Still, when I matched with David, nothing seemed immediately off. His profile said he was thirty—older than me, but within reason. He sounded confident, well-spoken, and suggested a high-end restaurant for our first date. The kind of place with soft lighting, real cloth napkins, and menu prices that make you pause before ordering.

Before we even met, he insisted, “Don’t worry about paying. I’ll take care of it.”

That should have been my first warning sign.

Even so, I ordered modestly. The least expensive entrée, one drink, no dessert. I’ve never liked feeling like I owe someone—especially a stranger. The conversation itself was… acceptable. Not exciting, not terrible. He talked a lot about his career, his beliefs, his expectations. I listened, nodded, asked polite questions. It felt less like chemistry and more like a job interview, but I’ve endured worse.

At one point, the topic of age came up naturally. I mentioned—calmly and without accusation—that I usually don’t date men significantly older than me. I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t dismissive. Just honest, the same way people are honest about wanting kids or avoiding smokers.

He smiled, but something changed. His jaw tightened. His tone cooled. When the check arrived, he paid with exaggerated confidence, waved it off, and didn’t hesitate. We said goodbye outside, shared a brief, polite hug, and I went home thinking, That was fine. Probably a one-time thing.

I was wrong.

Later that evening, my phone rang. Unknown number. I hesitated, then answered.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice came through—sharp, controlled, and utterly confident.

“This is David’s mother.”

I actually laughed at first, assuming it had to be a prank.

It wasn’t.

She explained that David had come home extremely upset. Apparently, my comment about not dating older men had deeply “hurt his feelings.” According to her, if I wasn’t serious about pursuing him, then it was inappropriate for me to accept a dinner he paid for. She said the “right” and “fair” thing to do would be for me to reimburse half the bill.

I stood in my kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, staring blankly at the wall. I couldn’t decide what shocked me more: that a grown man ran to his mother after a first date—or that she believed calling me was perfectly reasonable.

Then she corrected me.

David wasn’t thirty.

He was thirty-eight.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I didn’t justify myself. I just felt exhausted. Exhausted by entitlement. Exhausted by emotional manipulation disguised as manners. Exhausted by being expected to manage the feelings of a man old enough to know better.

So I sent the money.

And in the payment note, I wrote exactly what needed to be said:
“Buy yourself the most expensive pacifier you can find.”

Then I blocked both numbers, deleted the app for a while, and made myself a cup of tea.

Because if a man needs his mother to chase women down for reimbursement after a bruised ego… he’s not looking for a relationship.

He’s looking for a babysitter.