Looking for an obedient little homemaker under 40 to bake pies”: I wrote everything I thought to a 63-year-old “prince” from a dating site. His reply stunned me
I never believed in fairy tales, especially the kind that begin on dating sites. When you are a little over forty, with a divorce behind you, an adult son, and a position as chief accountant, romance gives way to healthy cynicism. I visited the site more out of habit, scrolling through men’s profiles like a catalog of goods that were out of stock.
That evening, a nasty autumn rain was falling. I made some tea, opened the app, and almost immediately came across this masterpiece of male self-presentation.
Name: Anton, 63 years old.
About me: “Looking for an obedient little homemaker under 40. Main requirement: must know how to bake pies, keep the house perfectly clean, and unquestioningly respect the man as the head of the family. Feminists and career women, please do not bother.”
My hand froze in midair with the cup of tea. Outrage flared up inside me instantly. I had had enough. I imagined this domestic dictator looking for a free maid, caregiver, and cook all in one, hiding behind grand words about being the “head of the family.” He wanted someone under forty! And what exactly did he have to offer? His pension and sciatica?
Usually, I just pass by characters like that, but this time my fingers reached for the keyboard on their own. I decided to tell this “prince” everything I thought about modern men and their demands.
“Dear Anton,” I began, not sparing the sarcasm. “At 63, it’s time for you to look for a good cardiologist and a calm woman your own age for walks in the park, not a young servant. I wonder what you yourself are ready to offer this ‘obedient little homemaker,’ besides the honor of washing your socks and listening to your orders? Are you a nobleman with a family estate? Or are you simply looking for a woman you can use to assert yourself in your old age? Good luck finding the fool who will throw away her life for the sake of your pies.”
I pressed “Send” and closed the laptop with a feeling of duty fulfilled. I was sure he would immediately block me, or that a stream of rudeness would come flying back in response.
In the morning, while getting ready for work, I checked the app out of curiosity. Anton’s reply had arrived at two in the morning. I prepared myself to read insults, but the text made me sit right down on the little bench in the hallway.
“Hello, Marina. You are the first living woman with critical thinking I’ve met on this site in a month. Before you, I was written to either by scammers or by ladies who immediately asked me to transfer money for a taxi. That ad is a harsh filter against women looking for an easy life. I can bake pies myself. I am a retired military officer, a widower for ten years now. I’m simply tired of emptiness and lies. You get angry very beautifully. Allow me to treat you to coffee as an apology for ruining your evening. I know how to listen, and I swear I will never once ask you to clean my apartment.”
That was checkmate. My inner critic choked. Curiosity won over pride, and I agreed to meet him.
At the café, the man waiting for me was nothing like the one I had imagined. Anton turned out to be a calm, ironic man with a deep voice and impeccable manners. He really had been a retired captain of the first rank.
There was no patriarchal arrogance in him at all — only the weariness of a lonely man who simply didn’t know how to properly write that he lacked the warmth of home.
We talked for three hours. Then he walked me home. Then came long walks, trips out of town, heartfelt conversations in my kitchen. And you know what? Six months later, I baked him an apple pie myself. Simply because I wanted to. And in return, he silently arranged the renovation of my bathroom, where the faucet had been leaking for three years and hired repairmen had never managed to fix it.
We moved in together. It turned out that behind the façade of a stern military man was someone who took care of all the difficult household matters without turning it into a heroic achievement.
Two years passed. Life flowed along in its usual way until we decided that what we absolutely lacked was a country house. We wanted a small house with a plot of land near the forest, somewhere to rest in the summer. We found the perfect option: a sturdy log house, an apple orchard, and a lake nearby.
Then came the question of buying it. Anton sold his old garage and added a substantial amount from his savings. I also invested my own savings. But financially, the ratio was about 80 to 20 in his favor.
To be honest, that same female fear, grown from the bitter experience of past years, still sat inside me. I thought: well, now the “head of the family” from that profile will finally show himself.
The house was being bought almost entirely with his money. Surely he would register everything in his own name or in the name of his son from his first marriage. I had already inwardly resigned myself to the fact that I would simply be a guest at that country house, and I decided not to start a scandal over real estate. After all, the relationship was more important…
Read the continuation in the first comment.
Looking for a submissive homemaker under 40 who can bake pies”: I wrote everything I thought to a 63-year-old “prince” from a dating site. His reply stunned me
I never believed in fairy tales, especially not the kind that begin on dating sites. When you are a little over forty, with a divorce behind you, an adult son, and a job as a chief accountant, romance gives way to healthy cynicism. I visited the site more out of habit, scrolling through men’s profiles like a catalog of goods that were out of stock.
That evening, a nasty autumn rain was falling. I made myself tea, opened the app, and almost immediately came across this masterpiece of male self-presentation.
Name: Anton, 63 years old.
About me: “Looking for a submissive homemaker under 40. Main requirements: ability to bake pies, keep the house perfectly clean, and unquestioningly respect a man as the head of the family. Feminists and career women, please do not bother.”
My hand froze in midair with the cup of tea. Indignation instantly flared up inside me. I had had enough. I pictured this domestic dictator looking for a free maid, caregiver, and cook all in one, hiding behind grand words about being “the head of the family.” He wanted someone under forty! And what was he going to offer in return? His pension and back pain?
Usually, I pass by such characters, but this time my fingers reached for the keyboard on their own. I decided to tell this “prince” exactly what I thought about modern men and their demands.
“Dear Anton,” I began, not sparing the sarcasm. “At 63, it’s probably time for you to look for a good cardiologist and a calm woman your own age for walks in the park, not a young servant. I wonder, what are you yourself ready to offer a ‘submissive homemaker’ besides the honor of washing your socks and listening to your orders? Are you a nobleman with a family estate? Or are you simply looking for a woman at whose expense you can assert yourself in old age? Good luck finding that fool who will give up her life for your pies.”
I clicked “Send” and, with a sense of duty fulfilled, closed the laptop. I was sure he would block me immediately, or that a stream of rudeness would fly back at me in response.
In the morning, while getting ready for work, I checked the app out of curiosity. Anton’s reply had arrived at two in the morning. I prepared myself to read insults, but the text made me sit down right there on the little ottoman in the hallway.
“Hello, Marina. You are the first real woman with critical thinking I’ve seen on this site in a month. Before you, I was written to either by scammers or by ladies who immediately asked me to transfer money for a taxi. That ad is a harsh filter against women looking for an easy life. I can bake pies myself. I am a retired military officer, a widower for ten years now. I’m simply tired of emptiness and falseness. You get angry very beautifully. Allow me to treat you to coffee as an apology for ruining your evening? I know how to listen, and I swear I will never once ask you to clean my apartment.”
That was checkmate. My inner critic choked. Curiosity got the better of pride, and I agreed to meet him.
At the café, the man waiting for me was completely different from the one I had imagined. Anton turned out to be a calm, ironic man with a deep voice and impeccable manners. He really was a retired captain first rank.
There was no patriarchal arrogance in him at all — only the weariness of a lonely person who simply did not know how to properly write that he missed the warmth of a home.
We talked for three hours. Then he walked me home. Then came long walks, trips out of town, heartfelt conversations in my kitchen. And you know what? Six months later, I baked him an apple pie myself. Simply because I wanted to. In return, he quietly organized repairs in my bathroom, where the faucet had been leaking for three years and hired repairmen had never managed to fix it.
We moved in together. It turned out that behind the façade of a stern military man was someone who took on all the difficult household matters without making a heroic deed out of it.
Two years passed. Life went on as usual until we decided that what we absolutely lacked was a country house. We wanted a small house with a plot of land near the forest, somewhere to relax in the summer. We found the perfect option: a solid log house, an apple orchard, and a lake nearby.
Then came the question of buying it. Anton sold his old garage and added a substantial amount from his savings; I also put in my own savings. But financially, the ratio was roughly 80 to 20 in his favor.
To be honest, that same female fear, grown from bitter experience over the years, still sat inside me. I thought: well, now that “head of the family” from the ad will finally show himself.
The house was being bought almost entirely with his money. Surely he would register everything in his own name or in the name of his son from his first marriage. I had already inwardly resigned myself to the fact that I would simply be a guest at this country house, and I decided not to start a scandal over real estate. After all, the relationship was more important.
He handled the paperwork for the deal. On the day we had to pick up the documents from the public services center, we went together. Anton received a thick envelope, got into the car, took out the extract from the real estate registry, and handed it to me.
“Check whether all the details are correct,” he said, starting the engine.
I unfolded the sheet. My eyes ran over the lines: cadastral number, area, address… And then my gaze stumbled over the field marked “Owner.”
There, in black and white, was my surname. My first name and patronymic. Share in ownership: 1/1. Sole ownership.
I could not believe my eyes. I read it again. My heart dropped somewhere into my stomach.
“Anton… There’s a mistake here. Why am I the only one? It was mostly your money.”
He looked at me with that same warm, slightly teasing smile that had disarmed me on our first date.
“There is no mistake, Marina. You see, a man becomes the head of the family not when he bangs his fist on the table and demands pies. He becomes one when the woman beside him feels absolutely safe. I have an apartment, and my son is doing well too. But this country house is your place of strength. I want you to know that you are protected. And besides,” he narrowed his eyes slyly, “if I suddenly become difficult in old age and start demanding obedience, you’ll have somewhere to kick me out to sleep. For example, the summer kitchen.”
I sat in the car with that piece of paper in my hands, and tears ran down my cheeks. Tears of absolute relief and some kind of belated happiness.
Sometimes we build concrete walls around ourselves, expecting a trick from everyone we meet. We judge people by ridiculous lines on the internet, forgetting that behind them there may be wounded, but truly worthy people.
My “domestic tyrant,” who had supposedly been looking for free servant, turned out to be a man who gave me not only a home, but also faith that true care exists.
And now I bake pies every weekend. In our own new oven. At our new country house. Purely because I want to.
Has it ever happened in your life that your first impression of a man — especially online — turned out to be completely wrong?