(After seven months, I completely fall out of love with my boyfriend, and I decide to break up with him. All of this happens in a fairly calm conversation, with a few tears here and there. There is one part I will never forget, though.)

Me: “A big problem for me was that you are always late. Always. Like, guaranteed, at least ten minutes late.”

Boyfriend: “You know I can’t help it.”

Me: “You know I used to have a problem with being late, and I told you how I fixed it.”

(We had numerous conversations about this.)

Boyfriend: “Yeah, I know; I remember. I never tried those methods, though. I was just hoping it would get better on its own.”

Me: *shocked*

(Three days later, he forwarded an email his mother sent him in response to our break-up. She said she couldn’t believe I had called him “unreliable” and she strongly disagreed. Yeah, that’ll make me take you back.)

(My boyfriend is ALWAYS late. Always. At least ten minutes, sometimes fifteen or twenty. I’m the kind of person who’s always ten minutes early. This means I am always waiting at least twenty minutes for him, every single time. I used to have a problem with being late, years before, so I try to talk to him about tricks and coping. Cue the day he is going to meet my parents. I am SUPER nervous. I absolutely need him to be on time for this.)

Me: “So, you know how you’re always at least ten minutes late?”

Boyfriend: *laughs* “Yeah.”

Me: “We absolutely cannot miss the train when we’re going to meet my parents. So, I want you to pretend the train is leaving ten minutes earlier than it actually is, so you’ll be on time. And then, I want you to be early for that.”

Boyfriend: “Sure.”

Me: “So, we’ll treat it like a date; we’ll be 20 minutes early, have some fun at the train station, then catch the train.”

Boyfriend: “Okay.”

Me: *sigh of relief*

(On the day of our trip, I’m almost half an hour early for the train. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Ten minutes before the train leaves, I start texting and calling. No answer. No boyfriend. I am freaking out. Two minutes before the train leaves, he comes running.)

Me: “Where were you? Why didn’t you answer?”

Boyfriend: “Hang on. I still have to buy a train ticket.”

(I am flabbergasted. Long story short: we miss the train. I am a silent ball of rage.)

Boyfriend: “If you had bought me a ticket, we wouldn’t have missed it.”

Me: “WHY WOULD I BUY YOU A TICKET?!”

Boyfriend: “Because you should’ve known I’d be late.”

(My boyfriend and I have been dating for a few weeks, but things are getting serious, fast, so it’s time to have the “please tell me we aren’t related” discussion, before we move ahead. As we’re both clearly of northern European descent, it is a slight worry. Names have been changed, but the sentiment is the same.)

Me: “Do you have any Webers in your family?”

Boyfriend: “No.”

Me: “Any Kleins?”

Boyfriend: “Nope!”

Me: “Mayer?”

Boyfriend: “Nuh-uh.”

Me: “Lamberts?”

Boyfriend: “Nope, the only Germans I have are Fischers.”

Me: “Okay, well, that’s my dad’s family back to the great-great-grandparents, so I think we’re good there. How about Petersen?”

Boyfriend: “Uh… Yeah.”

Me: “Well, crap. Who’s a Petersen?”

Boyfriend: “My mom.”

Me: *disappointed, because this guy was really something special* “Dang it! My mom’s a Petersen, too.”

(We both kind of mope for a minute, before a thought strikes me.)

Me: “Wait, with an ‘en’ or an ‘on’?”

Boyfriend: “’On.’ I mean, it was ‘en’ before we came through Ellis Island, but that was like four generations back, at least. We’re Norwegian.”

Me: “Oh, thank heaven! We’re Danish! And that line came over three generations back.”

(Cue a round of relieved laughter before we continue, and ensure that we’re not related for at least four generations on all sides. We’re fine, and get married only five months later. So, of course, at the wedding reception, my new brother-in-law gets clever.)

Brother-In-Law: “Hey, Peterson!”

(A good portion of the crowd turned, some rising halfway before they realized what was going on. My uncle smacked him lightly upside the head.)

(Thirteen family members live at my house, and it is common to have visitors many of us don’t know. There is an outside gate, and visitors have to use the intercom to be let in the yard. Whoever opens the door may not be the person who answered the intercom. I open the door to see a girl in her late teens.)

Girl: “Hi!”

Me: “Hi, nice to meet you. Come on in.”

Girl: “Okay. Do I sit down?”

Me: “Sure. Have a seat.”

(This is a common scenario for the person opening the door if someone else answered the intercom. Ten minutes later…)

Cousin: “Hey, there’s a girl on the couch downstairs!”

Aunt: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Wait. The girl I opened the door for?”

(It is.)

Me: “Hi. Are you still waiting?”

Girl: “Yes. Where is [Brother]?”

Me: “Let me get him.”

(I knock on my brother’s door and find it locked.)

Me: “Hey. Some girl is waiting for you.”

Brother: *no reply*

Me: “Hello!”

(This is before cell-phones, and he doesn’t have a room phone, so I intercom the living room phone, which is on a separate system.)

Me: “Hey. [Brother]’s door is locked and he’s not answering. Who’s the visitor?”

Aunt: “[Brother]’s girlfriend. He himself let her in the gate.”

Me: *bangs on door* “Hey! What’s going on? That’s your girlfriend downstairs!”

Grandpa: “Huh?”

Me: “Do you have the key? Something isn’t right.”

Grandpa: “Yeah, hang on.”

(My aunt, cousin, and the girlfriend all come up.)

Girl: *bangs on door* “Hey, you s***! I’m here!”

(My grandpa gets the key and opens the door to find… an empty room. Also, an opened window.)

Grandpa: “Where is that boy?!”

(We start organizing a search of all the rooms, all the while apologising to his girlfriend, who is very confused and starting to get pissed. Then, my grandpa looks out the window. We’re on the second floor.)

Grandpa: “[Brother]! He’s lying on the flower bed!”

Us: “What?!”

Girl: “What in the world?”

Grandpa: “He must have gone out the window and fell! Call an ambulance.”

(We scrambled to him and noticed he hadn’t cracked his head or anything; he just had some scratches. He woke up after we slapped him a few times. What really happened? His girlfriend’s parents are locksmiths, and she wants to be one, too. My brother wanted to impress her by locking his door, and then picking it when she came up. Their date, however, was at the hospital getting his head checked. It was fine, thankfully.)

(The day before New Year’s Eve, my boyfriend and I go out to dinner with my parents. Our area happens to be in the middle of a vicious cold front. As we are leaving, my boyfriend stops me in the lobby of the restaurant, and asks me to wait there while he goes out to bring the car around for me. At this point, my dad goes to leave, but turns back at the door when he notices that my mom isn’t following. She gives him a very pointed smile.)

Dad: *sighs heavily* “I guess I’ll go warm up the car and bring it around for you.”

(After he leaves, my mom turns to me and says:)

Mom: “You have such a nice boyfriend.”