Mrs. Storyteller

A quiet reflection on a little girl at a dinner table, the parents who adore her, and how ordinary family dinners can became the stories of a lifetime.

By Susan Rosser

Recently, my husband Richard and I spent a few days away at the Conrad Hotel in Orlando. I didn’t realize how much I needed rest and relaxation until I actually took the time to relax. This whole vacation thing may catch on.

On our second night, we had dinner at Sophia’s, the Italian restaurant on the property. As we chowed down on arancini and a lamb rib appetizer, I found myself watching the people around us.

My father used to call my mother “Mrs. Storyteller” because she loved speculating about the backstories of fellow diners.

“See that couple over there?” she’d whisper. “I think that’s a first date.” Or, “She’s furious because, despite her detailed instructions, he loads the dishwasher like a preschooler who hasn’t quite mastered the concept.”

So, at this chic restaurant, I practiced my own storytelling skills. When three men at the next table ordered three different bottles of wine, I decided they must be finance bros on an expense account. When a couple was seated and then suddenly left before ordering, I guessed the menu gave them sticker shock.

And then I noticed her – a girl of about nine – having dinner with her parents. At least that was the story I was telling myself. She was dressed up a little: a dress, a stylish jean jacket, a bow in her hair. I looked at her and told Richard, “I was that little girl.”

There’s a big age gap between me and my older sisters, so by the time I turned ten, I was essentially an only child. That was the year my sister Jaimee went off to college. As the “late child,” I lived a very different existence than my sisters, who came along when my parents were young, just starting out – also known as that time in life when disposable income is more theory than fact.

By the time I reached ten, things had changed. I enjoyed frequent dinners out with my parents and many trips to Florida to escape the cold New York winters. I always missed my big sisters, and any visit home from them was the highlight of my year. But I also relished the chance to have my parents all to myself. Now that I’m a parent, I see those years differently. I understand that the house was a little calmer, life a little easier, and that having just one kid left in the nest might have felt like a gentle exhale. At least, that’s what my mother used to tell me. And I think she meant it.

Watching that family, I was tempted to walk over and tell them to soak it all in – the sweetness of being three at a table, the simple luxury of a shared meal, the gift of time together. These moments feel ordinary while you’re living them, but they’re the ones you carry forward. The ones that quietly shape you.

Let the good times roll, I wanted to say. Just don’t take them for granted.