How I Met Your Father

Once in a while, a match hits just right. You see his photo, read his words, and something clicks. You picture him as more than a maybe.

(Future)

Kids,

In the spring of 2017, I was an architect in San Francisco, leading some of the most high-end residential projects in the city. One of them, believe it or not, is the building you’re sitting in right now.

I was 29. Single. On dating apps. And kids, every guy I swiped right on was an instant match. Like magic. But one day, one guy caught my eye.

He was German. 31. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Hot as hell. And from what I could tell, he had more than half a brain—rare on those apps. He answered every prompt right. I read his profile top to bottom, twice.

We matched instantly. The messages flew. It felt like stumbling onto someone I already knew, someone who’d been waiting on the other side of the screen. We said we’d meet in two days, and kids, I could not wait.

I pulled out this high-low black dress I found in Sydney. My white leather jacket from Florence. Full glam—I even called in my hair and makeup artist. I handwrote him a short little story in perfect German.

And then, he showed up.

Late. Very late.

Wearing some sort of sack-hoodie outfit. The conversation? Dry. Dead. Work talk, blah blah. His eyes were still blue, but somehow… dimmer in person. Then, casually, he confessed that he’d married a college friend once—for a green card.

I blinked. Still trying to hold on to the fantasy I’d built in my head. The dress. The note. The two-hundred-dollar blowout. Makeup. Tip. Deep down, I knew. This was not it.

The date ended. He asked for a second. I gave him a very polite maybe.

And then came the texts. The arguments. The drama. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to be his friend—why I didn’t want something. The love saga ended with me asking him to delete my number.

But kids, sometimes something is too close to nothing, and I didn’t need a half-hearted friendship with a man who was late and wore a sack to our first date.

So no, that guy wasn’t your father. But he was a reminder. One of those stories you collect in your twenties when you’re still figuring out what real connection feels like. And trust me, you’ll know the difference when it’s real.

And, if there’s one lesson here, it’s this:

Just because someone looks like a storybook, doesn’t mean they belong in your story.