Before visiting her, I made sure to shower especially thoroughly and dress in freshly laundered clothes. But as soon as I crossed her threshold, she ushered me into the bathroom. Opening the door, I was taken aback by what I saw.

The bathroom was pristine, gleaming white tiles and sparkling fixtures. There were shelves lined with an array of soaps, shampoos, and lotions, each meticulously organized. His mother, a petite woman with an intense gaze, handed me a robe and a fresh set of towels.

“Please, dear,” she said with a forced smile, “take a shower. It’s a tradition in our home. We like to be… very clean.”

I hesitated, looking at my boyfriend for some kind of explanation, but he simply nodded, urging me to comply. Reluctantly, I stepped into the shower and turned on the water, trying to make sense of this bizarre ritual.

As the hot water cascaded over me, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in my gut. What kind of family had such an obsession with cleanliness? I scrubbed myself thoroughly, rinsed off, and wrapped myself in the soft, plush towel his mother had provided.

When I emerged from the bathroom, his mother was waiting for me, her smile wider but no less strained. “Feeling fresh?” she asked, her tone almost mocking.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied, trying to mask my discomfort.

We moved to the living room, where an assortment of homemade treats and beverages awaited. Despite the welcoming spread, the atmosphere was tense. I couldn’t help but feel like I was being scrutinized, judged for every move I made.

Throughout the visit, his mother peppered me with questions about my hygiene habits, subtly criticizing my responses. My boyfriend sat silently, offering no support or reassurance. It was as if he had reverted to being a child under his mother’s watchful eye.

Later, when we were alone, I confronted him. “What’s with your mother and this obsession with cleanliness? It’s unnerving.”

He sighed, looking genuinely troubled. “I know it’s weird, but she has OCD. It’s been like this my whole life. If you want to be a part of my life, you have to understand and accept it.”

I stared at him, realization dawning. This wasn’t just about his mother’s mental health. It was about control, about ensuring I conformed to their standards. The showers, the scrutiny, it was all part of a test, a way to see if I would fit into their rigid world.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t live like this. I care about you, but this… this is too much.”

His face fell, but he didn’t argue. Deep down, I think he knew it too. We parted ways amicably, but the experience left a lasting impression on me.