How I Dealt with My Rich Older Man Being Mistaken for My Dad

My older man, Marco, let me choose which house we would live in together. My top two options were the four-bedroom, three-bath, 3,000 square-feet home with a two-car garage in a posh upper class neigh­bor­hood, and the older home in a less desir­able neigh­bor­hood, but with beau­ti­ful hard­wood floors and street park­ing.  I chose the lat­ter, sim­ply because it had never been lived in by Marco or his ex-wife. My thoughts were that if we were going to do this, we should do it right and not in the shadow of an ex. I wanted to make new mem­o­ries there together. Marco emphat­i­cally agreed, and so we made the move over the course of a week.

My fam­ily and I helped Marco move his stuff into the new house over a week­end. Dur­ing that week, Marco and I fur­nished the new home with items we liked that fit our style. The fol­low­ing Fri­day, we packed my stuff up— not sur­pris­ingly, all of my stuff fit in the back of his small car. We headed into the city and began a jour­ney I never imagined.

We were still in the “new rela­tion­ship” phase, espe­cially with our com­mu­ni­ca­tion skills; work­ing out the kinks took a lot of patience from my older man. There were times ini­tially when we sim­ply had to agree to dis­agree within the first two weeks of liv­ing together. Our cul­tural dif­fer­ences were very evi­dent, but what was also very evi­dent was that he was invested in me going to school. My dream was to have a suc­cess­ful career and become a strong, inde­pen­dent busi­ness­woman, while still being a kept woman, if that makes sense. I didn’t want to have to be depen­dent on my part­ners, but wanted a part­ner whom I could depend on.

After get­ting some­what set­tled in our new home together, fig­ur­ing out rou­tines, and the ever loom­ing “first bath­room use with the door open,” we finally started to feel com­fort­able. Things became sec­ond nature to us, as is com­mon with all new relationships.

So, now it was time. We made a trip to the grad school of my choice. Marco and I took the sched­uled tour with all of the other appli­cants and talked with school coun­selors. Every­thing was going fine, until one of the school coun­selors asked if my dad—meaning Marco—would be help­ing to cover the costs, right in front of him. I was mor­ti­fied, absolutely mor­ti­fied. I imme­di­ately said no and asked for stu­dent loan infor­ma­tion. This caught Marco’s attention.

We tried to laugh it off and thanked her for the infor­ma­tion; we took our paper­work and con­tin­ued with the tour, only to meet other peo­ple who mis­took Marco as my dad. On top of this, Marco didn’t feel like this was a good enough school for me; he wanted me to choose a more rep­utable school, but I declined.

At this point, the ten­sion in the air between us was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Again,we laughed about it out of sheer ner­vous­ness at that moment. But nei­ther of us was pre­pared for that, until it hap­pened. It was right in our face and we had to deal with it. Or, we could have sex and put it off until later. I chose the latter.

We headed home and dis­cussed the school, costs, and the stu­dent loans I would be tak­ing to pay for it. Marco lightly joked about being my dad, but I could tell it clearly both­ered him that more than one per­son assumed he was. Our age dif­fer­ence was 25 years, so more than any­thing, it was our being unpre­pared and that caught us off guard. As time moved on, when the “Dad” ques­tion was pre­sented, we came up with witty come­backs, funny sto­ries, and alter-ego’s to make it inter­est­ing. The first time was a bit of real­ity sting­ing us both, though.