(I’m at a family dinner, for the holiday seasons. We are all at the table, ready to eat, when I notice onions in my plate. I hate them, but resign to just pick them out and pass them to my father and uncles who will gladly take extra. My cousin, 13 years old, who’s sitting beside me, notices and decides to comment. I’m 19 years old.)

Cousin: “[My Name], what are you doing?”

Me: “I don’t like onions; I’m taking them out.”

Cousin: *cringe* “I don’t like them, too, but my parents showed me manners!” *she then proceeds to hold her breath in an attempt to numb the taste and forces herself to eat some*

(Truth be told, parenting never was a strong point in this family. I pretty much raised myself up but I always have had a love for education, etiquette, and protocol — which the rest of the family loathes. So, no one cares about “proper manners,” and she’s really only imposing it on herself. I don’t reply, thinking if it makes her feel great, why not? But, soon enough, I can see the struggle. She looks pretty green, has to take a pause to breathe in and out before taking a bite, and is clearly getting a gag reflex.)

Me: “You know, you look super green. Stop. Nobody cares if you just pass on the onions and not eat them yourself. It’s ok, I swear. Don’t do that to yourself, please.”

Cousin: “No, I’m fine. I have manners, [My Name].”

(She’s having tears forming at this point and won’t listen to me. The rest of the family are being oblivious to the situation. I know what’s coming and distance myself as much as I can from my cousin. I make a last attempt to talk her out of it.)

Me: “[Cousin], look, good manners are important but vomiting on the table is not appropriate, too…”

(She opened her mouth to reply to me, only to empty her stomach all over her plate, table, floor, and herself. Cue for the rest of the family to wake up and start a crisis. Who got blamed? Had to clean up? And somehow got talked into taking her cousin to a medical clinic? Yes, that would be me. I didn’t mind as it excused me to leave early. I also know I’m the only one who would decide it was bad enough and not to blame my cousin who just had good intentions despite the results. And, that’s how we found out that night that she has an intolerance to onions.)

(I’m an avid Pokémon fan while my boyfriend is not. Over the past couple years, however, I’ve exposed him to a lot of Pokémon information and we even purchased a Pikachu piggybank to save up money for our future while we’re still unmarried.)

Boyfriend: “I’m hoping we can save up a couple thousand dollars by the time we’re married.”

Me: “I’m sure we can, but in that piggybank? Unless we only fill it with hundreds, it’ll never fit…” *sly grin* “Unless… we get a second Pokémon piggybank?”

Boyfriend: “Fine… but only once we’ve saved $500!”

Me: “We could get the Eevee one!”

Boyfriend: “Or the Charmander. But then we’d want Bulbasaur and Squirtle, too, so we’d have all the starters…”

Me: “What’s wrong with that? Each one would be a $500 checkpoint, so we’d know how much we’ve saved. Also, can I point out that I love that you remembered all the Kanto starters?”

Boyfriend: “You’re right! Before you I had no Pokémon knowledge, and now I actually remember things! What are you doing to me?! Pokémon, stop!”

Me: “No, dear, it’s Pokémon GO. But you were close! Keep trying; you’ll get it!”

(He groaned loudly as I couldn’t help but laugh at him.)

(I am in a car with a work friend, and we’re chatting, when the topic turns to family. When speaking with acquaintances I often refer to my mother’s husband as my ‘stepdad’, even though I don’t consider him as such, simply because it’s easier to say and gets the point across. My closer friends understand my relationship with him, and with them I just refer to him by name.)

Me: “So I was talking with my stepdad…” *I pause for a moment, and figure I’ve been spending enough time with this guy outside work that he’s more than an acquaintance, so I might as well explain* “I mean, he’s not like my dad, he’s—”

Friend: “Whoa, whoa, wait. Does he make your mom happy?”

Me: “Yes, he—”

Friend: “Is he good for her?”

Me: “Yes, just—”

Friend: “Does she love him?”

Me: “Yeah, but—”

Friend: “Then don’t complain about him!”

Me: “I’m NOT complaining about him! He’s an AWESOME guy! She’s a vegetarian and so is he, they have a great organic garden in their yard, he totally loves her, and I’m really glad they found each other! But I only met him as a teenager, he never had a hand in raising me, and they didn’t get married until after I moved out. I seriously have nothing against him; he’s a great guy, but he’s not my dad!”

Friend: *silent for a moment* “Oh. Okay. It’s just, I was raised by a stepdad, and he was great. I get so f****** tired of people s***ting on their stepdads because they’re ‘not their real dad.'”

(Ironically, when I was a kid, I always hoped that she would meet a guy with kids so I could have siblings and a second dad.)

This story takes place about 20 years ago. I own a small Chinese restaurant and every week on Sunday at 11:30 on the dot, a family comes in. The father is Caucasian and the mother is Chinese. Their daughter is about five or six and is one of the loudest and rambunctious children I’ve ever met.

Every Sunday without fail, they’ll come in, and the kid will make a mess, scream, etc., and the father will ask for a fork for himself and their daughter. The mother will constantly try to calm her daughter down and tell her to be a “proper lady” and tell her husband to at least attempt to use chopsticks — and usually fail to do so. It becomes a habit and I usually have to deal with this table because the kid’s such a pain that none of my servers want to deal with her.

One week, the family just stops coming. Most of us are thinking “Oh, good, no more brat.” Three months pass and the family comes back, but it’s just the father and the child.

Surprisingly, the child is very calm. In fact she orders the dishes, says please and thank you (I’d like to mention that half of our adult patrons don’t do that), and she uses chopsticks better than my eight-year-old.

After the meal the father comes up to pay for the bill. I ask him how he got his daughter to be so polite, because quite frankly it seems like a miracle.

He gives me the most forlorn look I’ve ever seen. Apparently his wife died in a car crash about three months earlier (at this point I am feeling very guilty about calling her a brat) and never came home. For some reason his daughter thought it was her fault and that because she was being naughty her mother didn’t want to come back. Even though the father said it wasn’t the case, she insisted on being a “proper lady” and got both of them to learn how to use chopsticks, “Because Ma Ma will come back if she sees how nice we are.”

After he paid for the bill I just went to the back and cried. I went home and hugged my daughter.

It’s been 20 years since then and they’re still regulars. She even has a little family of her own that she brings in. The little girl eventually realized that her mother wasn’t coming back, but was still the most polite customer I’ve ever had. I’m sure her mother would be very proud to see how well she’s grown up.

It still brings me great joy when I see the daughter teaching her own children how to use chopsticks.

(My dad drives an extended cab Chevy Silverado and Mom and I have just finished shopping at the local mall. She doesn’t drive the truck often so she’s not used to it and is taking extra care to make sure she has plenty of room navigating the parking lot. She has just completed a turn. I’m about 8 years old.)

Me: “Why did you take such a big turn?”

Mom: “To make sure I don’t bump into things. This truck doesn’t turn on a dime.”

Me: *having never heard this phrase before* ‘Yeah, it turns more on a quarter.”

(She had to stop the truck, she was laughing so hard.)