I’m Right Here

There is something I genuinely enjoy about the four of us going out to dinner.

Not the food.
(Not really.)

It’s the moment.
All four of us at the same table. No carpools. No practices. No “I’ll just meet you there.”

Just us.

Now—like any modern American family—there are occasional phone sightings. A scroll here. A text there. A quick check of something that absolutely could have waited.

But more often than not?
We’re talking.

Except… sometimes… we’re not all talking.

Take the other night. Local spot on Route 1 in Lewes. Nothing fancy. Just dinner.

The lineup:

• Kate (21, junior at SCAD, now apparently a life coach)
• Charlotte (16, sophomore, still innocent… for now)
• Lisa (my wife, co-conspirator)
• Me (still legally the father and husband, last I checked)

And the conversation starts normal enough. A little this, a little that. It takes a few turns like a driver who refuses to use a GPS…

…and then merges directly onto:

Dating. Boys. High school flashbacks.

No warning. No blinker. Just—boom—we’re there.

And then… it happens.

Kate and Lisa start explaining to Charlotte that phenomenon—you know the one—where years after high school, some guy you barely knew suddenly reappears like a ghost with WiFi and says:

“Hey… I always had a crush on you.”

And they’re laughing.

Laughing.

Like this is charming. Like this is adorable. Like this is some kind of delayed Disney ending.

All 3 of them – laughing.

As if any of them – ANY OF THEM – dating someone – ANYONE – is remotely “funny”

NOT ON MY WATCH

And I’m sitting there like…

I’M RIGHT HERE.

I give a polite laugh.
You know the one.
The “I’m involved but also deeply uncomfortable” laugh.

And then Lisa—my lovely bride—decides to contribute a little personal history.

“Yeah, there was this really popular guy… and he told me later he liked me… and if I had known back then…”

Oh no.
No, no, no.
We are not finishing that sentence.

“…I would have been set.”

SET.

As in:

• Socially elevated
• Walking through hallways in slow motion
• Probably had a theme song

Meanwhile I’m over here like the after-credits scene.

I. AM. SITTING. RIGHT. HERE.

Now—depending on your perspective—you could interpret this a couple ways:

Option A:
“Well… she ended up with “him”. He’s … fine, really. Solid. Dependable. A real ‘good personality’ guy.”

Or Option B:
“She upgraded. Left the boys behind and went pro.”

I choose Option B.
(It’s the only one that allows me to sleep at night.)

Now normally—normally—I cannot stand loud restaurants.

Nothing ruins a Tuesday at 6:00 PM like needing to read lips over a guy named Chad absolutely shredding a cover of “Summer of ‘69.”

We even asked to move tables.
“Anywhere quieter,” we said.

They moved us.

It wasn’t quieter.

It was just… loud… with a different angle.

But here’s the twist.

For the first time in my adult life…

I was grateful.

Because that wall of sound?
That slightly distorted live music?
That inability to catch every word?

It became my shield.

I could hear just enough:

• Every third word
• The general topic
• Enough to stay legally considered “present”

…but not enough to be drafted into the conversation.

And I thought to myself:

“Where are the guys at the table when I need them?”

—said every girl dad… eventually.

Was I horrified?

Yes.

Absolutely.

No question.

But also…

There’s something about it.

The laughing.
The sharing.
The “you had to be there” stories.

It’s their world for a minute.

And I just get to sit there…
half-listening…
occasionally nodding…
protecting my sanity behind a drum solo…

…and thinking:

Yeah.

This is a good night.

A good night I’ll enjoy later, but at that moment thinking,

“Has anyone ever stabbed themselves in the ears with a butter knife?”

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