I couldn't help but overhear the interactions of a family sitting behind me in a restaurant tonight.
It was a family of four. The young boy, somewhere around eight years old I would guess, had a serious case of the squirms. Mom was trying to keep her son occupied by asking him an extensive list of questions.
What's ninety-nine plus one? What's fifteen plus ten? What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite mother?
The young boy shot the answers right back as quickly as the mother could rattle them off... until...
Who's your favorite father? the mother asked.
The question was followed by a prolonged silence.
Mom repeated the question but still there was no answer.
I pictured Dad tugging at his shirt collar as beads of perspiration collected on his forehead. He must have been worrying over the delay. Why was his son not pronouncing him dad of the year?
What terrible secret was about to be revealed?
"My father is my favorite father," the young boy finally answered.
Whew! Disaster averted.
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