(These stories are from over 15 years ago. My biological dad ran out on me and my mum when I was a baby, so since infancy, I lived with my mum, my aunt, and my grandmother in varying combinations. No dudes around, which meant that as an 11-year-old male, I have picked up some slightly strange habits. Mum has been dating this guy for about two years and I love him, and he loves me. She decides it’s time for us to move in with him. On the second night in our new place, I go and shower and come out wrapped in my towel as always.) 

Stepdad: *sitting on the couch reading, looks up at me and snorts* “Mate… what are you doing?”

Me: “Showering?”

Stepdad: “Well, yeah, but… Okay, so you don’t have boobs to hide, right?”

Me: *indignant* “No!”

Stepdad: “Right. Well, you can wrap the towel just around your waist, then. You’ve also only got short hair, so you don’t need to wrap it up like that…”

(Yep, I’ve been wearing the towel wrapped around me up under my arms and wrapping up my hair turban style. It never occurred to me why my female relatives did that and it had honestly never occurred to Mum to correct me. She laughs and apologizes after [Stepdad] tells her I am lucky I’ve never showered at school or I’d be a laughing stock. This must pique his interest into other things I might have picked up because for the next couple weeks interactions like this are pretty normal. I’m washing my face before bed as always, when my stepdad wanders into the bathroom.)

Stepdad: *snorts again* “Mate. Use the soap, or just water.”

Me: *indignant* “Mum uses this!”

Stepdad: *very gently* “I know, bud, but that’s makeup remover.”

(A few mornings later, I’m getting ready for school. As always, Mum has already left for work, but my stepdad works from home. Again, he walks past the bathroom as I’m doing my morning stuff. He does a double-take and I can see he’s trying to formulate a nice way to bring something up.)

Stepdad: “Uh… Uh, hey, bud?”

Me: “Yeah?”

Stepdad: “Look. If you want to wear it, I’ll back you completely but… you do know that’s mascara, right?”

Me: “Yeah, so?”

Stepdad: “Well, nothing, mate. Just… most blokes don’t wear it because it’s makeup.”

Me: “WHAT?!”

Stepdad: *giggling* “Well, at least you were taking it off at night!”

(I didn’t know it was makeup. I thought everyone wore it; it was the only makeup my mother wore except lipstick for a fancy night out or something, and I knew THAT was makeup but assumed everyone wore mascara. Another night:)

Stepdad: “Mate, did you use my razor?”

Me: “Yeah, sorry. I couldn’t find Mum’s.”

Stepdad: “No worries, mate. Didn’t realise you shaved already! I didn’t have to shave until I was fifteen. We’ll get you your own.”

Me: *excited* “Thank you! Can we get the pale blue ones Mum uses? Yours was really sharp; I cut myself a few times.”

Stepdad: *looking at my face* “Are you using it against the grain, bud? I can’t see any cuts…”

(I roll up my pant leg to show him a couple of cuts on my ankle.)

Me: “Nah, just these ones, and one on my underarm. What’s ‘against the grain’ mean?”

Stepdad: *trying desperately not to laugh* “All right, we need to have a chat…”

(A few weeks later, after he gently corrected a few things — and told me many times if I wanted to keep doing things the old way that I could, but he knew I was clueless about how men did things — he watches me bring my two glasses of water out of my bedroom the same way I do every morning.)

Stepdad: “Thirsty last night, mate? You could have used one cup. I bloody hate doing the dishes.”

Me: “But you need two. One isn’t for drinking.”

Stepdad: *looking at me confused* “What do you mean?”

Me: “Grandma always has two. One for drinking and the other one sits there. She always told me not to drink from the other cup.”

Stepdad: *bursts out laughing* “Bud, the other cup was for her teeth.”

(Chalk that one up to child stupidity rather than only having female role models. He really was the most gentle and accepting man helping a prepubescent boy figure out what he wanted to do and what he was doing just because he’d always seen his mum doing it. I’m SO GLAD he was around before I started high school; I can’t imagine that would have been a pleasant experience doing things the way I’d always done them. To this day, he is kind and gentle and my number-one supporter in everything I do. Now I have my own baby boy and Dad likes to crack jokes like, “He’s getting big! We’ll have to get him his own razor soon.” I love my dad.)

This story is part of our celebration of Not Always Right publishing over 100,000 stories!

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(I’m a customer in this story. I’m wandering around a marketplace, having done my grocery shopping there. I have some time to kill when I spot some cute leggings with a cartoon motif from a popular kids’ cartoon which has also many adult fans, myself included. I approach the stall owner.)

Me: “What’s the largest size of these leggings?”

Stall Owner: *looks at me up and down* “Well… I’m afraid I won’t have yours.”

(Thank you, kind stall owner! Not many people acknowledge adult fans…)

When I was six years old, I, like most six-year-olds, was in the process of losing my baby teeth. And like many families, my family was invested in the myth of the Tooth Fairy. And, also like many families, particularly ones with multiple children, the execution of the Tooth Fairy was… not always spot on. On one such occasion, I had lost a tooth but woke up disappointed to find that my tooth was still under my pillow and no change had been left behind. I wasn’t devastated, but you get your money where you can when you’re six and it never feels good to be left out of something all your friends talk about.

My parents clearly felt guilty, because they decided to rectify the situation. Instead of doing the usual Tooth Fairy routine that night, they decided to be a bit more creative. That afternoon, there was a knock at the door. I was told to go upstairs and play in my room, since the guest was probably a friend of my parents’ and they wanted to hang out alone. This was the usual routine, so I didn’t think anything of it. A few minutes later, I was called back downstairs. My parents explained that the guest was actually the Tooth Fairy, who felt awful about skipping our house the previous night. She just had so many houses to visit. She took the tooth from my parents and exchanged it for a pocket made of construction paper. It had my name on the outside and was filled with change. Luckily for my parents, I did not question the logic of why the Tooth Fairy would knock or why they were just carrying around my lost tooth on their persons. 

But what they didn’t know, or didn’t think of, was that in my first-grade class, we had a spelling test every Friday afternoon. If you did well on the test, you were rewarded with candy… which was handed to you in a construction paper pocket with your name written on the outside. I spent the rest of the year in that class 100% convinced my first-grade teacher moonlighted as the Tooth Fairy. And given that I wasn’t very fond of her to begin with, she suddenly went up a few notches in my esteem!

My coworker is serving a couple who just came for a coffee. Their bill comes to 16zł. They put exactly 16zł in coins on their table along with an envelope with printed, “Open to see God’s plan for you!”

My coworker huffs and collects the money, then rips the envelope in half.

Two halves of a 100zł bill fall out.

(My family goes to an Italian restaurant for my 14th birthday. I am really excited to have an arrabiata dish, since I had it once on holiday and loved it, but haven’t had it since then. Unfortunately, it was on an outdated menu but is not on their current one.)

Me: “I’ll just pick something else.”

Dad: “I could ask the waiter.”

Me: “No, it’s okay. It’s not on the menu; we can’t ask them.”

(The waiter comes over and the rest of my family places their orders.)

Dad: “I don’t suppose you do any other items that aren’t on the menu?” *explains*

Waiter: “I could always try asking.”

(The waiter disappears into the kitchen. I’m feeling a little embarrassed at the idea of causing a fuss. The waiter comes back, and I fully expect him to say that they can’t make it.)

Waiter: “Our head chef says he can make it and says it would be [standard price for pasta meal].”

Me: “Oh, thank you so much!”

(I still felt bad that they had to go out of their way for me, but the meal was absolutely delicious! My dad gave them a big tip and we even met the head chef, who gave my brother – an aspiring chef – some advice. To this day, that is the best restaurant I’ve ever eaten at. No wonder business is still good there!)