When I finally asked my dad what he really thought of my boyfriend, I expected approval—or disapproval. I didn’t expect insight.
There are things you don’t ask your parents unless you’re truly ready.
For me, that question was, “What do you think of Daniel?”
My dad isn’t the meddling type. He doesn’t offer opinions unless prompted—and even then, he’s measured, always careful with words. But Daniel and I had been dating for almost a year, and though they’d met multiple times, I’d never asked directly.
I assumed no news was good news. Dad laughed at Daniel’s jokes. They’d once spent an entire barbecue debating the best James Bond actor. Daniel even helped him set up a new smart thermostat, which is basically the modern dad-litmus.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t know what he really thought.
So one Saturday, sitting on my parents’ patio sipping coffee, I asked. “Dad, what do you actually think of Daniel?”
The pause that said everything
My dad looked at the garden. Then at me. Then back at the garden. That’s when I knew: he had thoughts.
He began slowly. “He’s a good man. Funny, smart. I can tell he cares about you.”
My chest unclenched. But he wasn’t finished. “I just wonder if he knows who you are.”
The phrase hit me sideways. What did that even mean? Of course, Daniel knew me—we talked constantly. He knew my Starbucks order, my go-to childhood stories, even the name of my third-grade bully.
But my dad continued. “I don’t mean your likes and dislikes. I mean the deep stuff. What drives you. What scares you. What makes you light up when no one’s watching.”
A story from his own past
My dad told me that when he was dating my mom, his father—my abuelo—had said something similar.
Back then, my mom was a whirlwind: spontaneous road trips, loud laughter, eyes that never missed a thing. My dad, a quiet math major, had been enchanted. But abuelo once asked him, “Do you love her, or do you just love how she makes you feel?”
It was a hard question. But it forced him to look beyond his own reflection and into my mom’s full, layered humanity. “That’s when I started asking her real questions,” he said. “Not just where she wanted to go that weekend, but why she wanted to go. What scared her. What home meant to her.”
That, he said, changed everything.
Reflecting on my relationship
After that conversation, I couldn’t stop replaying it.
Did Daniel know the real me?
The Maya who double-checked locks three times before bed. The Maya who worries she’s too much and not enough at the same time. The one who, at thirteen, decided she had to hold it together for everyone — even when she was crumbling inside.
To be fair, I hadn’t always shared that Maya. I liked being the fun, adventurous girlfriend. The one who booked surprise tickets to concerts and always had an emergency snack in her bag. But maybe I hadn’t given Daniel the chance to know me beyond that.
I started noticing things. The way our conversations stayed surface-level when I was upset. How Daniel flinched at emotional vulnerability, then redirected with humor. How he asked how my day was—but rarely why something mattered to me.
And more important: how I let him get away with it.
The next steps
It would’ve been easy to spiral into resentment. To blame Daniel for not knowing me deeply enough. But my dad’s story reminded me that depth requires invitation. So I decided to invite Daniel in.
The next time we had a quiet night in, I shared something I’d never said aloud: how I still carry guilt for not speaking at my grandmother’s funeral. How I’d planned to, rehearsed for days — but froze.
Daniel was quiet, then gently asked, “What do you wish you’d said?”
That conversation cracked something open. It wasn’t a grand, tearful breakthrough—but it was real. And it started a new kind of rhythm between us.
One where we traded childhood fears, awkward teenage memories, and secret dreams we hadn’t even told ourselves out loud yet.
What my dad really gave me
Looking back, I realize my dad didn’t just give me a verdict on Daniel. He gave me a lens — one that asked not just “Is he good?” but “Is he a good partner for you?” One that went beyond compatibility checklists and into the harder territory of emotional intimacy.
It made me reflect on the kind of relationship I want to build. One where both of us are fully seen. Where the hard questions aren’t avoided, but welcomed. Where “How are you?” evolves into “Who are you becoming?”
My dad’s wisdom wasn’t about Daniel, really.
It was about me. About not settling for a version of love that stops at surface harmony. About trusting that I deserve a partner who’s not just nice or funny—but deeply curious about my inner world.
Final thoughts
When I asked my dad what he thought of my boyfriend, I expected a thumbs up or a quiet concern. Instead, I got a masterclass in love — delivered over coffee and crepe myrtles.
His insight didn’t come from judgment, but from a lifetime of learning what lasts. And it reminded me that the people who raise us often know more than we give them credit for — not because they see the future, but because they’ve lived through versions of our present.
I’m still with Daniel. We’re not perfect. But we talk differently now.
We listen better. We ask deeper questions.
And in those quiet moments when I see him really see me — I think of my dad, nodding gently across a patio, and finally understand what he meant.
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