We’re at a dimly lit restaurant, the kind 30-somethings swap for the clubs of their 20. Across from me and my husband, Greg, sit potential new friends we met in the hallway at our son’s daycare.
After enough stop-and-chats at pickup, we figured it was time – dinner on a balmy Saturday night in the thick of a hot Chicago summer.
We’re halfway through appetisers when the other wife asks, “So, how did you two meet?”
It’s a classic first-date-with-potential-friends question. Poor thing, she has no idea what she’s stepped into.
For most people, the “how we met” story is a gift, one of a couple’s greatest hits, perfect fodder for an evening with new friends. But Greg and I have a different kind of story. That’s why he nudges me under the table, our code to tell the simple version. To be fair, he thinks he looks worse in the story than I do. I disagree. But I’ll let you be the judge.
“Oh, we met through a mutual friend,” I say.
It’s true. Technically.
Adam was our mutual friend. It’s just not the whole truth.
The wife isn’t buying it. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she glances at her husband.
“Really?” she says. “You look lik...
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