Three Months After I Met your Mother
Dinner in Astoria, a 17-Hour Drive to Alabama, then Paris
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I write letters to my newborn son, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself.
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Before you read this letter below, you should read the first part of this story.
24 Weeks Old
Dear Myles,
After I met your mother, our relationship moved quickly—like the kind of speed where you stick your head out the window of the back seat of a car driving swiftly and can't catch your breath. Or when the velocity of a roller coaster is moving so rapidly and there is nowhere to brace your arms and hands, so you just put them up and say, 'Lord, take the wheel,' even when there is no wheel.
When your relationship is moving this quickly, the people around you, especially the ones who genuinely care for you, start to notice a new bounce in your step, and they want to make sure you don't trip because, to them, you might be moving just a little too quickly.
"I think I found the one," I told Nova after seeing your mother every day for a month.
"Three months, my friend,” Nova responded.
"Three months for what?"
"Three months. That's when their real colors show; that's when you know if they're crazy."
I had no idea what she was talking about. But Nova was my friend and mentor at a school where I had just started my teaching career. She was older and wiser, and also queer—which meant, in my mind, she must be right, because surely she would know women a lot better than I do. She was trying to make sure I didn’t trip.
Okay then, three months, then I’ll know for sure.
Month two into Nova’s three-month rule, your mother texted me one night and asked if I would come with her to dinner to visit her high school mentor, Daniel, who she hadn't seen since she herself left Alabama. She just found out he also moved to New York City not too long ago, Astoria to be exact, and he now had a wife, Yoko.
“Of course,” I responded. The greedy extrovert in my mind would never turn down a chance to meet new people and eat food.
“Who do I tell them I am bringing?” she asked.
If you know your mother like I do, only she could ask such a candid, loaded question over a text message. Before this, the conversation was flowing—no lull or pause until this question.
"Wait. Three. Months," the little Nova on my shoulder kept saying. But in month two, your mother was asking to make this official, like, "Let’s stop playing games and throw a title on this." The entire "Love and Basketball" movie played in my head for the 30 seconds it took me to decide. The ball was in my court; I had to decide if we would move forward or not.
“Tell them I’m your man," I responded. I smiled as I typed those words and hit send. I smiled because I thought about Nova’s three-month rule. I smiled because I didn't listen; at that moment, maybe I was the one that was crazy—I knew I was already in love with your mother.
We take the trip to Astoria to visit Daniel and Yoko, and they cook a meal that leaves my Caribbean tongue shell-shocked. One, because I've never met a white man whose cooking was so good that he deserved an invitation to the cookout. I had Southern food before, but not like this. My wife was vegan at the time, and Yoko, Japanese, so they made greens without meat but said they used mushrooms.
My fork pitched for meat, but my tongue tasted greens - there was a dissonance I couldn’t describe. I never knew the sound of stirring mac and cheese could sound so explicitly wrong yet so right as it was freshly dug into right after it was taken out of the oven. If the mac and cheese didn’t sound like this—like it needed an NSFW sign on it; I don’t want it. The food was immaculate. So good, here I am writing to you about it seven years later. Southern food will do that to you - they do something to our heart rates, arteries, blood pressure too, but that’s beside the point.
The point is, in month two, I’m clearly in love. I haven’t told your mother yet, and if in month 3 she turns into Medusa or a werewolf on a full moon, then I’m with it. She’s worth the risk.
Month 3 rolls around, and she is longing for home – Thanksgiving is in a few weeks. She’s an actor in New York City, works at a non-profit with a flexible schedule to work on her art, and flights are expensive to go home to Birmingham for the holiday – money is tight.
“Hey, I want to go home for Thanksgiving. Flights are expensive, so I was thinking of renting a car and driving down to Birmingham, and coming right back. Do you want to come with me?”
Full. Stop. Here.
Ok, I stand corrected. Your mother’s memory is much sharper than mine. She says I volunteered to go, but the story about visiting Astoria and Daniel and Yoko’s cooking remains true.
Ok. Continue.
We pack a bag, rent a car, and drive to Birmingham, Alabama. A 17-hour road trip with a woman you're already in love with, whom you just met on the subway three months ago, will make it feel like you've known her for years. We laugh and argue because I recently found out I was lactose intolerant, and the protein powder I was taking had some plans for my digestive system. Your mother made faces, cracked jokes, and spent the next 17 hours in a car with the windows down in winter with a man who could not stop flatulating. She didn’t pass Nova’s rule either. She didn’t tell me yet, but she was already in love as well.
I realize, now, Nova’s 3-month rule wasn't for your mother to pass - it was for me, and I failed it miserably. Love does something to a man, something he can only describe when he’s in it. He wastes no time - because he knows, when he knows.
From a subway platform in Brooklyn, to Daniel and Yoko’s apartment in Astoria, to a 17-hour ride to and from Birmingham, Alabama. That summer, June to be exact, we went to Paris together.
Everyone looked at us then like we were moving too quickly. People still look at us like we're we’re moving too quickly.
But seven years later, we're still in love—still screaming our heads off, with our hands up like when you're on a roller coaster and there's nowhere to brace your hands, so you just put them up and say, 'Lord, take the wheel,' even when there is no wheel.
God smiled when He put us together. Our hands are up because He has been at the wheel—steering since we met on the subway platform.
He hasn’t let us trip yet.
Love,
Daddy
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Let me know your thoughts:
What lessons have you learned about love that surprised you? Any 'aha' moments or revelations?
For those in long-term relationships, how do you keep the love alive? Any traditions or rituals that have stood the test of time?
Ever received a loaded or candid text? What was it, and how did you handle it?
What's the most surprising or unique dish you've encountered? Any food experiences that left you shell-shocked?
When's the last time you had to make a significant decision, just like in a movie? What was it?
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
The most recent is about The Grandmother Myles never met
Read about his Mother's Love Affair - It’s exactly what you don’t think
Raising Myles feels like Cooking in the Bathroom
Wow! Mr Myles what a lively and wonderful story of you two. This cracked me up: “One, because I've never met a white man whose cooking was so good that he deserved an invitation to the cookout.” Are you still friends with Daniel? When can you share some if his recipes? I didn’t ignore your other questions just this was more important to me as a foodie.
A great read and a great idea!