This week, Dave proposed.
This month, I’ve started a new job, a new commute, and a new phase of my life. Even though I hadn’t shared the first two pieces of news with you, I knew I had to share this last piece of with you immediately.
Sharing is caring.
But I didn’t call you first. I didn’t even call Dad first. I called his mother. Grandma and I talk regularly now and in more detail than any conversation I’ve had with you or Dad over the years.
Grandma’s know best.
Grandma and I talked on the phone and Dave and I promised we’d visit her during our Summer plans to visit California. I sent her a couple of pictures of the night and among other things she said, “I have a couple of rings the same shape, must mean we have great tastes.”
Grandma’s know all.
The call with Dad went well but I felt a little funny. It was a little awkward because it marked the breaking of the tradition of “asking permission.” But that act would have offended me the most seeing as I’ve seen Dad once in over a decade.
My permission was the only one Dave needed in my book of Broken Family Tales.
But as I crossed the names off my list, Dave reminded me that I needed to call you. And I didn’t need to be reminded, but it’s always hardest talking to you.
Your hearing loss does help either.
I knew you had already been calling Dave my fiancée to anyone who would inquire. This confused my Aunt, but she knew I would tell her myself if it was true. So I called you last… but had to leave a voicemail for you to let me know when I could reach you next.
And when we talked, you were excited and we made plans to see each other soon.
A Christmas miracle.