“My date tricked me into meeting her father”

Welcome to Kiss and Tell, a series about the steamy, surprising and frequently absurd world of Toronto dating. Send your most memorable stories from the pursuit of love and lust in the city to submissions@torontolife.com.

—As told to Lisa Saban

I met Milena on a dating app a few years ago. That’s not her real name—I can’t remember it—but it’s a common enough Serbian name. I had romanticized being with a Balkan woman. It made me feel closer to my Serbian roots.

After we matched, we messaged on the app for a few minutes. Then she asked for my phone number. Right after I gave it to her, she called me. I was surprised by her candour, but I found it attractive. So I picked up the phone.

Related: “My Earls hookup turned out to have a diaper fetish”

At first, she seemed pretty normal. She had a faint accent, and she told me she had moved to Canada when she was 10 years old. After some brief small talk we started discussing our aspirations and where we saw ourselves in 10 years.

I told her that I wanted to move to LA and be a screenwriter there someday. I had just gotten an agent and was working on selling my first script. Her response to this was, “Well, if you’re not successful here, what makes you think you’d be successful in LA?” I remember thinking, Wow, taking shots already? We’d only been on the phone for 10 minutes. But I shrugged it off. I wanted to give her a chance.

Related: “My podiatrist co-worker turned out to have a foot fetish”

A week later, we had our first date at a restaurant in Oakville. I showed up early (I always do) and got us a table at the back of the restaurant. Then I got a call from her: “Where the fuck are you? I don’t see you.” Her tone was unexpectedly hostile.

I told her I was at a table in the far back. I saw her looking in from the foyer of the restaurant, and I waved to her. When she finally saw me, she started walking toward me, her death stare transforming into a warm smile as she approached. I clenched my jaw, thinking, Here we go.

She was unhinged, but she was cute—olive skin, dark features, super fit. This was in January—Orthodox Christmas—and she said, “Are you fasting? You should be fasting.” “I might start tomorrow,” I said as I took a large bite of my burger.

Almost everything she said had this threatening undertone to it. She would either interrogate me or be blatantly judgmental. She asked whether I would marry someone after dating them for a year. I told her it would depend on the person, but a year isn’t that long to know if they are “the one.” She replied, sternly, that she would expect me to propose to her after a year. Then her phone rang. It was her father. I took this opportunity to go to the bathroom and take a breather.

When I got back, she said she had to go. I settled the bill, relieved that she was cutting the date short. Maybe she also sensed that it was awkward. But then she asked, “Can you drive me home?” My entire body tensed up. “I live super close,” she said. Although the date hadn’t gone well, I didn’t want to come off as ungentlemanly.

I drove her home and walked her to the doorstep. I was a shy 25-year-old and didn’t know how to say no to a woman, let alone someone this overbearing. Thinking back on it now, the writer in me was enjoying the ride. Perhaps she could inspire a character in one of my scripts. But, mostly, I was too afraid to reject her—I had no idea how she would react. It felt easier to just go along with it.

The front door opened to reveal her father, Dragan, a tall grey-haired man. At that moment I realized Milena had tricked me into meeting her father. Well played, I thought—I should have seen it coming. Dragan invited me inside for a drink. I told him I couldn’t because I was driving, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The place reminded me of my parents’ house: thrifted furniture, just the right amount of clutter, lots of European artwork on the walls, the odd cross or religious piece, and a large liquor cabinet. Do all Serbian immigrants’ houses look the same? Dragan told me to take a seat as he grabbed some shot glasses and a bottle of rakia, a popular Balkan fruit spirit that’s 40 per cent alcohol. I took a seat in an armchair. Milena and Dragan sat across from me.

I quickly discovered where Milena got her aggressive personality from. After we took a shot of rakia, Dragan started asking me questions about my career as a screenwriter. He pressed me on whether I would ever make enough money to support a family. I told him I wasn’t even sure I wanted a family. That didn’t go over well. He shot me a stare that mirrored Milena’s from earlier. Like father, like daughter.

At this point, I was starting to feel the rakia. My five-foot-six frame never could tolerate hard liquor. Meanwhile, Dragan was on his fourth shot, and if anything he seemed more alert. Milena wasn’t drinking—she was fasting, she said. The whole time, she sat there quietly judging and letting out the occasional “Mhm” or nod of agreement while her father interrogated me.

Somehow, we ended up in the basement, where Dragan showed me his workshop. The man had so many tools. Meanwhile, I’ve never picked up a power tool in my life. But I went along with it, listening to him go on about his latest project, a bookshelf. Milena had stayed upstairs but was probably eavesdropping from the top of the staircase.

I followed Dragan into a small room just off of the workshop, which held his gun collection—a few shotguns he said he hadn’t used in ages, but he liked the feeling of having them. When he leaned in close to me, I could smell the rakia on his breath. “You never know when a gun could come in handy,” he said in Serbian. Though I could barely speak the language, I understood it well. I suddenly felt nauseous and dizzy.

Back upstairs, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror and decided it was time to go. I came out and told Dragan and Milena I wasn’t feeling well. Dragan made fun of me for being such a lightweight. I laughed, trying to keep my cool. Milena thanked me for dinner, the most genuine display of warmth she had shown all night.

The next morning, I woke up incredibly hungover. I had a text message from Milena saying that she didn’t think we were a good match and wishing me the best of luck with my screenwriting career. The second part of the text seemed sarcastic, but ultimately I was relieved. I was grateful she had been the one to end things. Because, in all honesty, I was afraid of what Dragan would do if he found out I’d rejected his daughter. After all, he was armed.