I’m a grandfather with a loving wife and a band of golf buddies I’ve known since I took up the sport. I try to avert the stereotypical elder’s tech incompetency, aided by my self-proclaimed nerd of a grandson; he visits my place at least once a week in order to get away from parents who don’t really share any of his interests, owing to my willingness to lend him an ear about what he’s up to regardless of whether I know anything about it.

One day, [Grandson] mentions a group he plays tabletop games with. The next time my buddies and I go golfing, I relate it to them in the clubhouse as we have a coffee before the tee-off.

Me: “[Grandson] told me about his gaming buddies the other day, and I realized that they’re not all too different from you and me.”

Buddy #1: “What in the h*** do a bunch of teenage gamers have in common with a sack of old farts like us?”

Me: *Laughing* “That’s what I thought, too! But he told me he’s got four or five guys that he meets up with every week or so for these games. They have fun with each other, they don’t get mad when they get one up on each other, and they consider each other friends. But they don’t really know that much about each other outside the games when they sit down and think about it.”

Buddy #2: “That’s… Huh. That does kinda sound like us when you say that.”

Me: “And that’s my point! [Grandson] mentioned that [Friend] ran late to one session ’cause he almost ran out of gas after a date, and [Grandson] said, ‘I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend!’ So, [Wife] kissed me goodbye as I was going to meet up with you guys, and I thought, ‘How many of those guys know I’m married?’”

Buddy #3: “That’s a good point, actually! I didn’t know you were married! How long have you two known each other?”

Me: “Well… s***. How old am I again?”

We all have a laugh. Some time after you become old enough to do age-restricted things, “How old are you?” stops being a question you can answer off the top of your head.

Me: “I met [Wife] in college, so… [multiple of ten] years, at least?”

Buddy #2: “Oh, that’s a load of bulls***, that is.”

Buddy #4: “What are you talking about?”

Buddy #2: “No relationship that starts in school lasts until you’re old and grey. No dumba** expects a marriage to last the rest of their lives. If you’re involved with someone long enough, you stop loving each other. That’s just a fact.”

Buddy #1: “The f*** that’s a fact! I met [Woman #1] my last year of college, and I had grey hairs when she passed away.”

Buddy #3: “Never went to college, but [Woman #2] was in college when I hooked up with her, and we’re still enjoying each other every night.”

Buddy #4: “Seems like you’re the only dumba** here, [Buddy #2]. I met my husband in high school.”

Buddy #1: “I didn’t even know you were gay!”

Buddy #4: “Neither did my high school. People thought there was something wrong with it back then.”

Buddy #3: “Wow, [My Name] is right: we really don’t know that much about each other outside golf.”

Buddy #2: “Well, it’d help if you weren’t all lying out of your s***holes!”

Buddy #4: “F*** off, [Buddy #2]. Why are you acting like there’s something wrong with two people who love each other being able to stay that way?”

Buddy #2: “Because f*** you, that’s why!”

He storms out, leaving the rest of us in the clubhouse.

Me: “Well, now I know something about [Buddy #2]. And I don’t want to know anything else about him.”

We the remainder made an effort to learn a bit more about each other from that day on, but we never hung out with [Buddy #2] again.

My husband passed away in his early fifties. As a part of the grieving process, I made a habit of visiting his grave every weekend, taking care of the plot, and having silly one-sided conversations with him about how my week had been.

After a few months of this, I noticed that the grave next to my husband’s didn’t seem to have anyone looking after it. There was a woman’s name on the gravestone that I did not recognize, and she, too, seemed to have passed away relatively young.

My husband was one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I’ve ever met, and I figured he’d appreciate it if I took care of his “neighbour”, as well. I started also keeping this unknown woman’s grave tidy, planting flowers in the spring, lighting candles for All Hallows, etc.

This went on for about three years. Then, one weekend, I arrived to find a man standing in front of the woman’s grave. He looked pretty worn and shabby, and he stank of cigarette smoke. I introduced myself, and when I explained who I was and why I had been looking after the grave, he started crying.

It turned out the woman was his little sister. He’d been estranged from his family for a long time, due to a combination of alcoholism and general bad luck. He hadn’t been invited to the funeral, and no one had told him where her grave was.

Now, his parents had passed away, as well, and as he was the last living member of his family, he’d decided to try to track down his sister’s last resting place.

He was just so touched and grateful that I, a complete stranger, had cared enough to look after his sister.

We started meeting up almost every weekend after that to take care of our lost loved ones, and I got to watch him gradually get back on his feet, get an apartment and a job, and get healthy again. Once he had a solid ground to stand on again, he turned out to be funny, smart, and charming, and we began spending time together outside of the graveyard.

This weekend, he’ll become my second husband. I guess we both had someone looking out for us, as well.

This story is part of our Highest-Voted-Inspirational-Stories-Of-2025 roundup!

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Back in the day, I used to be a bouncer at a strip club. Every Valentine’s Day we’d get most of the regulars all lining up, wearing a suit and carrying flowers and chocolates.

Me: “We don’t allow outside food.”

Customer: “Oh, but it’s for Crystal! I’m gonna ask her out on a date!”

Me: “That’s not gonna work, my friend.”

Customer: “But she’s always so nice to me! I always make sure I choose her when I come.”

Me: “Pro tip, if every time y’all hang out it involves you giving her money, she is not into you.”

Customer: “What do you know! You’re just trying to keep the chocolates for yourself, fat a**?”

Me: “You really wanna be saying that to the guy who decides if you get into the club or not?”

Customer: “Crystal is into me, I know it!”

Me: “If she is into you, she’ll put on some clothes and take you out for waffles, because that’s what she does with her boyfriend.”

Customer: “She doesn’t have a boyfriend! She told me!”

Me: “You think her name is really Crystal, too? My friend, she works here, it’s her job to be nice to you. Now are you going to play nice too, or are you going to be a problem?”

He decided to be a problem, and we banned him. Every f****** Valentine’s Day I swear. I was soooo happy to quit a few years later!

Bookings for Valentine’s Day are coming in and we all know it’s going to be madness. My manager is groaning as he’s sat at the computer managing the bookings.

Manager: “Ugh, Jesus!”

Me: “What now.”

Manager: “Every single booking, and I mean literally every single one, has a variation of this written in the special requests section of the booking form.”

I come over to look at the screen and he highlights the note on the current booking.

Note: “Not sure if you’re aware but it’s Valentine’s Day so I will be expecting you to make my girl feel special. Flowers, Champagne toast, heart-shaped chocolates, anything you can gift us will be appreciated. I am looking forward to see what you put together!”

Me: “Yuck. AKA, “I’m cheap and lack any imagination so I’m putting this all on you”.”

Manager: “Yeah well he’ll be getting a plastic rose in a vase like everyone else. If he wants all that s*** he’s paying for it.”

I made a note of that booking and the table assigned to it when I was working on Valentine’s Day. I noted that every table that night had 2-3 plastic roses in a vase at the table. That guy’s table had one…

I’m having a terrible day (family stuff), and my wife urges me to get some comfort food — in our case, fast food. So, we stop by a popular burger chain and walk to a kiosk, where you can order on a screen. Neither of us is big on social interactions (especially not today). My wife always feels rushed and fears that she’ll forget what she wants, so for us, those self-service kiosks are a blessing.

My wife often knows me better than I do, especially when I’m having a rough day, so she suggests the things I like most on their menu. She also orders the big box of nuggets, which comes with three free sauces.

Wife: “What kind of sauces do you want?”

Me: “Eh… Mustard, I guess…”

Wife: “And the other two?”

Me: “I don’t know. Just pick some.”

Wife: “Okay… Mustard and mustard!”

Me: “You always do this! You always pick what I like. Think of yourself for a change! You like chili sauce, so be selfish for once! Pick what you want!”

Wife: *Without looking back* “I was selfish when I picked you as my husband and married you. Besides, we have chili sauce at home. Do you want something else?”

I admit, I was sputtering and at a loss for a reply.