“You shouldn’t dismiss someone solely based on a tattoo,” I reminded my father.
Reluctantly, he agreed, setting aside his bias.
He spent hours reviewing my potential matches on a dating app, removing the ones he didn’t approve of as I worked beside him.
Nearing my forties, it felt as if my father had taken over as CEO of my life. His way of showing love is through careful planning and organization.
“What’s ‘cuffing season’?” he asked, continuing his search.
“It’s a period when people seek companionship during the colder months,” I explained, chuckling.
When he went for his favorite profiles, he meticulously noted names in a small notebook. Naturally, these profiles included golfers and antique enthusiasts, his chosen hobbies.
“If there are any profiles you favor,” he offered, “we’ll examine them together.” I was reminded of the matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof.
Two months earlier, the future I envisioned—sharing a home, possibly raising a child—vanished. My boyfriend suggested a “break” on the last day to withdraw from a house contract we intended to sign together. With November approaching, my parents invited me to stay with them for the remainder of the year. I relocated from my boyfriend’s home in South Carolina to my parents’ residence in Florida. Though I appreciated their kindness, returning felt like a step back. Filling the guest room at this stage in life made me feel embarrassed. I was grieving for the end of the relationship and for the places and people I had come to love. I planned to stay through Thanksgiving, then find an Airbnb nearby until Christmas. My dad had alternate plans.
Growing up, my father and I always shared a close bond. From age three, he took me to Krispy Kreme doughnuts, offering comfort and conversation. Initially, they revolved around my youthful problems, then his job loss, and later about my divorce in my mid-thirties.
One particular visit involved him accidentally spilling chocolate milk on my cherished overalls.
“She spilled it herself,” he joked to my mom.
Now, we visited to talk through my heartache.
“I believed he’d move heaven and earth for you,” Dad mentioned regarding my ex.
Our discussions couldn’t change reality.
So my dad took action. Most mornings were spent planning our day’s course in his home office, aptly named Mission Control. Along with my parents’ dogs—a Wheaten terrier and poodle—we charted our recovery steps.
I decided to relocate closer to my parents, supporting them as they aged, while spending more time together.
Together, we looked for a new home. Nearly securing an apartment over a Pilates studio, my father insisted we test its noise level. The loud music and instructor’s voice reverberated through the floor above. It would’ve driven me mad.
Next, we visited a promising apartment. I felt optimistic when I declared, “This is the one”—an independent decision based on my own wishes rather than those dictated by a former life.
Dad accompanied me to several financial advisor meetings, ensuring I felt economically stable regardless of future personal challenges.
Amid destabilization, my true home remained: with my parents, the Krispy Kreme traditions, and Mission Control.
Dad’s wisdom clarified the poor quality of many dating app profiles.
“These are terrible, Whitney,” he noted.
“No kidding… at least I have your support,” I replied.
And sincerely meant it.
Mission Control concluded once unnecessary.
Dad’s attention guided my life forward, regaining my confidence.
In February, I moved close by, decorating walls and discovering preferred coffee shops.
Missing the dogs waiting outside, expecting our trip to the office, I excitedly anticipated what lay ahead.
Grateful, my parents’ unwavering love filled gaps left by previous distances.
Occasionally, I still telephone Dad for advice and updates in the mornings.
On Valentine’s Day, I met someone new—making my own choice on Hinge.
He happens to have a tattoo.
Whitney Hinds Coble is a lawyer, coach, and memoir author based in St. Petersburg, Florida, pursuing a Memoir Writing Certificate at Stanford University while working on Held, a memoir about trauma, relationships, and the support guiding us home. Expressed opinions are solely the author’s.
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