Sharing

When my little ones were truly little, I often worked (and commuted) well past their supper time. Kara dutifully saved a plate for me. Many times as I sat down to my lonely meal, I was joined by my bright-eyed girl, who was in breach of bedtime. She would be in "Barney" jammies or a nightgown and her blonde curls were, by this time of night, quite unruly. She routinely climbed onto my lap and generously helped herself to the better part of my dinner. I never minded.

Over the years, she outgrew the jammies and many other customs, but not this one. She seemed to have a 6^th sense about her whenever I was preparing to dine late.

“What are you making? Yum!! You’ll share with me, right?”

About a year ago I got a hankering for some chili at 10 p.m. No sooner was it heated and topped with cheese did my 17-year-old pull into the garage.  I ate one bite before she came into the kitchen.

“Hi Dad. Oh, yum!! You’ll share with me, right?”

I just slid the bowl to her. She says she only wants a bite or two but she’s been saying that since 1993. She always seemed to finish whatever I gave her.  I truly didn’t mind; I like to see her enjoy a meal.

She is at college now, 1,500 miles (and 118 nights) from home. As I heated up some leftovers last night, I knew full well that I would be dining alone. And I did.

I kind of minded that.  I mean, I was full, but empty too.