Familiar thoughts rushed through my mind. Maybe I should help. Maybe this is normal. All my life, I had been taught to be kind, patient, and grateful. To smile when it hurts. To stay silent when I’m being disrespected.

“It’s just dishes…” a small voice whispered inside me. “Wash them, and everything will be fine.”

But another voice was stronger.

It was shouting.

“This isn’t about dishes. This is about you.”

Slowly, I placed my purse on the chair.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Completely,” David replied calmly. “At my age, I don’t want to waste time on empty relationships. I need a woman who knows how to take care of a home. A house reflects its wife.”

He spoke with confidence, as if giving a lecture.

As if I weren’t a real person, but a candidate for a position.

“So… you invited me to dinner, promised me a nice evening, and instead you decided to test me?” I clarified.

“Not a test,” he corrected. “An examination.”

That word hit harder than a slap.

An examination.

As if I had to prove my worth.

“And if I don’t start washing all this right now, what happens?” I asked quietly.

He shrugged.

“Then you’re not the woman for me.”

He said it so easily. So coldly.

My chest tightened.

I thought of my mother.

How she spent her whole life cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. While my father sat on the couch and said, “That’s her job.” I remembered her exhaustion, her silent tears.

And suddenly, I understood.

This was my future if I stayed.

“And what about you?” I asked softly. “Can you cook? Clean? Take care of a home?”

He smirked.

“I’m a man. I make money. That’s enough.”

Everything became clear.

I looked at my hands. My neat manicure. The dress I had chosen just to please him.

I came on a date.

And ended up in a job interview.

“You know, David,” I said slowly, “you’re right. A kitchen really shows a lot.”

He smiled, thinking I agreed.

“Exactly…”

I picked up my purse.

“It shows that you’re lazy, selfish, and that you don’t respect women.”

His smile disappeared.

“What?”

“You weren’t looking for a partner,” I continued. “You were looking for a free maid.”

“You’re exaggerating…”

“No,” I interrupted. “I’m finally seeing the truth.”

I turned toward the door.

“Linda, wait!” he shouted.

“You misunderstood everything!”

I turned back.

“No. I understood perfectly.”

“At my age, women want security,” he said angrily. “And you’re acting like a spoiled child.”

I smiled.

“At my age, women finally learn to respect themselves.”

I put on my coat.

My hands were shaking. My heart was pounding.

“You’ll regret this!” he yelled. “Men like me are rare!”

I stopped at the door.

“Fortunately.”

And I left.

Outside, the evening was cold. Cars rushed by. People hurried along.

And I felt light.

It didn’t hurt.

I wasn’t ashamed.

I wasn’t afraid.

I didn’t lose a man.

I saved myself.

On my way home, I stopped at a small café. I ordered hot tea and a slice of cake and sat by the window.

Around me, couples were laughing, holding hands.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel lonely.

I felt free.

Because a real woman is not someone who silently washes someone else’s dirty dishes.

She’s someone who knows when to walk away before being turned into something convenient.