A word here.
No one’s angry. And no one just upended his water all over the menus or flung his fork from the table.
Rather, it’s a stare down between my dad and my son. Whereby he who laughs first–like my dad–loses.
Now I’ve been privy to a few stare downs. None of them riveting enough to talk about now. Or ever. Except the one factor that never changes: My dad shedding his glasses and contorting his face into 82 variations of the same look thinking it will give him the upper hand.
And it might have this time, had my son stayed crouched on the back of his boots instead of zooming in to my dad’s forehead for a closer look.
At which time Grandpa folded.
But won what was important…
the heart of his grandson.