The Tables Have Turned

“Did I ever tell you about the day after you were born?” I asked my youngest as we headed out to lunch. “I was so euphoric. I knew all my children.”

She confirmed that I had told her. “Many times,” she said.

It’s one of my life’s vivid moments: sitting in bed on a Sunday morning, holding my newborn while waiting for my two preschoolers to arrive to meet their sister, just hours old.

“Uh-oh. I sound like Pop-pop, repeating myself,” I said, referring to my father, who lived into his nineties.

“It’s okay,” my now thirty-something child said. “Where are we going for lunch?”

“Your birthday,” I said. “Your choice.”

She named my father’s favorite lunch spot.

The host showed us to our table.

As I slid into the booth, I said, “This is the same table I ate at with Pop-pop the last time we went out to lunch.” That was four years ago, about a month before my dad died. “Only last time, I sat where you are and Dad sat over here, where I am.”

I nodded at the grown woman across from me and thought, The tables have turned.