One night, recently, my father tells my mother he has to make two confessions. It was late. They were in bed. Her mind goes wild. “After all these years, what could it be,” she asks herself. Not good.

He begins. One: “I really like golf,” he says.

The day before was going to be his last day on any golf course, as he had planned, because it was ‘too stressful,’ but something had changed. He was not too shabby even if one of his balls flew through a forested area and bounced off a tree. He had found a shortcut to the next hole. We had laughed about this over dinner.

My father’s second confession: “I was practicing in the front yard.”

My father felt guilty because he had pulled out several different clubs and practiced his swing in the morning before they played golf while my mother was asleep. He thought that somehow it had given him an unfair advantage. He played better than my mother too, and she’s more of ‘the athlete.’

Really? I know you’re asking yourself that, and I promise my father is a sane man. He’s just too kind. My mother says it was a struggle to not die of laughter in bed that night. “He is such a boy,” she said. All men are forever boys, right?

I think it was also one of those life reminders that let you breathe a little easier. I could see it on her face. He is still the man she married. So thoughtful… So caring… She didn’t need to say anything else. They have the kind of love that makes other people want to tear up… just a bit.

My parents celebrated their 36th anniversary in October.