Every Wednesday evening is dinner with my dad — just me and my dad.

One Wednesday we were having dinner, great conversations — but next to us was a couple. He was probably in his seventies; she looked like she was maybe in her mid-to-late sixties. I couldn’t help but overhear part of their conversation.

She had talked about a health problem. And they were there celebrating their twenty-nine-year anniversary. She said she was always so comfortable and happy that he made her laugh.

I caught myself feeling for them. Empathy. I tried to put myself in both of their shoes — like I got to be the proverbial fly on the wall. I could feel their emotions, I did the math behind the love, and I was able to see it play out in real time — and they were so unaware of how aware I was.

It just struck me: in those moments — when you’ve gone through difficult times, challenging times, times that have been frightening because of health scares — you still turn back to that other person. To give you that comfort to help you move forward. To help you learn and grow. Maybe even feel more complete.

And how beautiful was it that they got to share that together — and that we had the moment to speak with them, me and my dad.

The Wednesdays are newer, but they are significant. As my dad gets older — and after a heart scare a few years ago — I cherish the moments we have to be together. The moments I know will someday pass.

But I also refuse to have the same regrets that others before me had. I won’t miss the chances to know my father.