Dinner with my parents

"Okay," Dad said as he leaned back in his chair. "Let's talk about this Jack guy."

I groaned.

"Do we have to?"

"Absolutely."

Mom laughed.

"We definitely have to."

I shook my head.

"There's really not much to tell."

Dad pointed at me.

"Start with what you know."

I thought about it for a moment.

"Well, he sold me my car."

Dad nodded.

"Okay."

"He's the General Manager at the dealership."

"That sounds respectable."

"I guess."

Mom sat down beside me.

"What else?"

I shrugged.

"He's persistent."

Both of my parents laughed.

"Persistent?" Dad asked.

"Very persistent."

"How persistent?"

I laughed.

"Dad, the man called me for weeks."

Mom's eyebrows shot up.

"Weeks?"

"Yes."

"And you kept saying no?"

"Yes."

Dad looked impressed.

"Most men would have given up."

"Exactly."

"But he didn't?"

"No."

Mom smiled.

"I like him already."

"Mom, stop."

"What?"

"You don't even know him."

She laughed.

"I know enough."

Dad nodded in agreement.

"Most people hear 'I'm seeing someone' and disappear."

I looked down at the table.

"That's what I thought would happen."

"But it didn't."

"No."

"What did he say?"

I smiled despite myself.

"He said he only wanted one date."

Dad grinned.

"Smart man."

"Dad."

"What?"

"He said he wanted one chance to show me how fun life could be."

Mom and Dad exchanged a glance.

I immediately noticed it.

"What?"

"Nothing," Mom said.

"It wasn't nothing."

Dad smiled.

"Sweetheart, when was the last time somebody told you they wanted to show you a good time?"

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it.

Because honestly, I couldn't remember.

Not because Chris was a bad person.

But because somewhere along the way, life had become work.

Responsibilities.

Schedules.

Bills.

Stress.

There wasn't much room left for fun.

Not real fun.

The kind where you laugh until your stomach hurts.

The kind where you lose track of time.

The kind where you don't spend the entire evening worrying about tomorrow.

Dad must have noticed the look on my face.

"That's what I thought."

I sighed.

"Don't make this into something it isn't."

"What is it then?"

"It's dinner."

Mom laughed.

"That's how every date starts."

"Dinner."

"It is not a date."

They both laughed so hard I thought my mother might fall out of her chair.

The more they laughed, the harder it became for me to defend my position.

Because deep down, maybe I knew they were right.

Not about Jack.

Not about some future relationship.

But about the fact that I needed something.

Something different.

Something that belonged to me.

For years, every decision I made revolved around someone else.

Chris.

Work.

Family.

Responsibilities.

I couldn't remember the last time I had done something simply because I wanted to.

Dad broke the silence.

"So what does he look like?"

I nearly choked on my drink.

"Dad!"

"What?"

"Seriously?"

"Of course seriously."

Mom was now fully invested.

"Oh, I want to know too."

I shook my head.

"You two are unbelievable."

Dad smiled.

"That's not an answer."

I laughed.

"He's tall."

"How tall?"

"I don't know."

"Taller than Chris?"

"Yes."

Mom smiled.

"Good."

"Mom!"

"What?"

I couldn't stop laughing.

It felt good.

Maybe too good.

For the first time in months, maybe years, I wasn't thinking about problems.

I wasn't thinking about Chris.

I wasn't thinking about money.

I wasn't thinking about the arguments.

I was simply sitting at my parents' kitchen table laughing.

And somehow, that felt strange.

Mom noticed.

She always noticed.

Her expression softened.

"You know what I think?"

I already knew I wasn't going to like whatever came next.

"What?"

"I think you've forgotten what it feels like to be excited about something."

The room became quiet.

I looked down at my hands.

Because she was right.

I had forgotten.

Life had become routine.

Predictable.

Heavy.

Every day felt exactly like the one before.

Wake up.

Go to work.

Come home.

Deal with whatever issue was waiting.

Go to bed.

Repeat.

Excitement wasn't part of my life anymore.

Hope wasn't either.

Dad reached across the table and squeezed my shoulder.

"You deserve one evening."

I looked at him.

"One evening?"

"One evening where you don't carry everybody else's baggage."

Mom nodded.

"One evening where you don't have to fix anyone."

"One evening where you don't have to worry."

I felt tears threatening again.

Not because they were saying anything profound.

Because they understood.

They saw what I had been hiding from everyone else.

Including myself.

For years, I had convinced myself that I was okay.

That things would improve.

That if I just held on a little longer, everything would work out.

But sitting there with my parents, I realized how exhausted I really was.

And maybe that's why I finally agreed to go out with Jack.

Not because I was looking for another relationship.

Not because I was unhappy enough to leave.

Not because I was searching for an escape.

I simply wanted to remember what it felt like to smile again.

At the time, that didn't seem like a big thing.

Looking back, it was everything.

After dinner, Mom insisted on coffee.

Nobody was allowed to leave her house without coffee.

It didn't matter if it was ninety degrees outside or if it was ten o'clock at night. If Pamela was making coffee, everyone was drinking coffee.

Dad carried the cups to the table while Mom cut slices of pie she had conveniently forgotten to mention earlier.

"Mom, if I keep eating here, I'm going to gain twenty pounds."

She smiled.

"Then eat less at home."

Dad nearly spit out his coffee laughing.

I shook my head.

"You two are ridiculous."

"We've been called worse," Dad said.

The three of us sat around the table talking long after dinner was over.

Those were always my favorite nights.

No television.

No distractions.

Just conversation.

The kind of conversation families don't have enough anymore.

Stories.

Memories.

Arguments about things that happened twenty years ago.

The older I got, the more I appreciated those evenings.

At some point, the conversation drifted toward old family stories.

Dad loved telling stories.

The problem was that he never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

"I remember when Lela was sixteen and decided she was going to run away."

I groaned.

"Oh God."

Mom immediately started laughing.

"I remember that."

"I wasn't running away."

Dad nodded.

"Sure you weren't."

"I wasn't."

"You packed three bags."

"I was proving a point."

"You made it to the mailbox."

"I was waiting for someone to stop me."

Dad pointed at me.

"See?"

Mom laughed so hard tears formed in her eyes.

The truth was, I had always been dramatic.

Maybe not intentionally.

But I felt everything deeply.

Always had.

When I loved, I loved completely.

When I hurt, I hurt completely.

When I was happy, everyone knew it.

When I was heartbroken, everyone knew that too.

Unfortunately, that meant my parents could usually tell something was wrong long before I admitted it.

Dad took a sip of coffee.

"Do you remember when she brought Chris home the first time?"

I immediately froze.

Mom glanced at me.

"Oh, I remember."

Dad smiled.

"I knew right away."

I rolled my eyes.

"Here we go."

"What?"

"You did not know right away."

Dad shrugged.

"I knew enough."

"You always say that."

"Because it's true."

Mom sat quietly for a moment.

Then she spoke.

"I remember you being happy."

The room grew quiet.

Not uncomfortable.

Just thoughtful.

Mom looked at me.

"You were excited."

I smiled softly.

"I was."

"You couldn't stop talking about him."

I laughed.

"That sounds like me."

"It is you."

Dad nodded.

"You thought he hung the moon."

The three of us laughed.

Because it was true.

When I first met Chris, I thought he was everything.

Handsome.

Confident.

Fun.

The kind of person who could walk into a room and immediately become the center of attention.

I had fallen hard.

Really hard.

And for a long time, I believed we would have our happily ever after.

Mom must have seen the sadness in my eyes because she reached across the table.

"It's okay to admit things changed."

I looked at her.

"You spent years building a life together."

I nodded.

"That's not nothing."

"No."

"It matters."

Dad agreed.

"It always matters."

For years, people had tried to make relationships seem black and white.

Good or bad.

Stay or leave.

Love or don't love.

But real life wasn't like that.

Real life was messy.

You could love someone and still be unhappy.

You could care about someone and still feel lonely.

You could want things to work while knowing they probably wouldn't.

Those truths were difficult to admit.

Especially to yourself.

Mom stood and began collecting dishes.

"Enough serious talk."

Dad smiled.

"Thank God."

She pointed at me.

"We're shopping tomorrow."

I laughed.

"We already discussed this."

"No, I informed you."

"That's not the same thing."

"It is when I'm your mother."

Dad stood.

"Good luck fighting that battle."

"I've been fighting it my entire life."

"And losing."

He wasn't wrong.

Mom had already decided.

Which meant tomorrow we were shopping.

Whether I liked it or not.

By the time I finally left, it was close to ten o'clock.

Dad walked me to my car.

Something he had done my entire life.

As we reached the driveway, he slipped his hands into his pockets.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he looked at me.

"You okay?"

I smiled.

"Yeah."

He gave me the look.

The father look.

The one that said don't lie to me.

I sighed.

"Mostly."

Dad nodded.

"That's a better answer."

The porch light illuminated his face.

I could see the concern there.

Not judgment.

Not disappointment.

Concern.

The kind only a parent can have.

Finally, he spoke.

"You know your mother and I love you, right?"

I laughed softly.

"I think so."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"No matter what happens."

Something about those words caught my attention.

"What do you mean?"

Dad shrugged.

"I mean life."

I leaned against the car.

He continued.

"Sometimes life doesn't turn out the way we planned."

I looked away.

Because lately that felt like the understatement of the century.

"You don't have to carry everything alone."

I felt tears threatening again.

Dad wasn't usually emotional.

That's what made moments like this hit harder.

"When you were little," he continued, "you used to come running to me anytime something went wrong."

I smiled.

"I remember."

"You trusted me to fix it."

"You usually did."

He laughed.

"Not always."

"Most of the time."

He smiled.

Then his expression softened.

"I can't fix this one."

The words broke my heart.

Because I knew exactly what he meant.

He couldn't fix my marriage.

He couldn't fix Chris.

He couldn't fix the disappointment.

He couldn't fix the loneliness.

And for the first time, I realized how hard that was for him.

Parents spend their lives protecting their children.

Then one day they can't.

And all they can do is stand beside them.

"I know, Dad."

He nodded.

"But I can remind you of something."

"What?"

He smiled.

"You're stronger than you think."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he pulled me into a hug.

The kind fathers give.

Quick.

Strong.

Full of love.

When he stepped back, he pointed at me.

"And if this Jack guy turns out to be an idiot, call me."

I burst out laughing.

"There he is."

"Just saying."

"You don't even know him."

"I don't have to."

I shook my head.

"You and Mom are impossible."

"We've had years of practice."

As I climbed into my car and drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

Dad was still standing in the driveway watching me leave.

Just like he had when I was sixteen.

Just like he had when I was twenty-five.

Just like he always would.

And as I drove home, I realized something.

For the first time in a very long time, I was looking forward to tomorrow.

Not because of the shopping.

Definitely not because of the shopping.

But because Saturday was getting closer.

And whether I wanted to admit it or not, a small part of me was curious about Jack.

A very small part.

At least that's what I kept telling myself.