Table for Three
Finding Joy in the Space Between
"I have a great deal of company in the house, especially in the morning when nobody calls." —Henry David Thoreau
You know that moment in restaurants when the host asks, "Table for...?" and pauses, expecting you to fill in a number? I've gotten used to saying "Three" — me and my twins — and watching the slight recalibration happen behind their eyes.
February makes everyone think about relationships, forcing us to map our lives against some standard happiness blueprint. Walking through any store this time of year, you're confronted with a particular vision of love: couples, pairs, perfect halves finding each other.
But what if some of us are whole alone? What if some of us have built full and joyous lives, just not in the way Hallmark typically portrays?
I've been single for years now — a choice that seems to fascinate people almost as much as my decision to become a single father of twins. It's not that I'm against relationships; I've had them, enjoyed them, and learned from them. But somewhere along the way, I realized something that seems to make some people uncomfortable: I'm genuinely content with my life exactly as it is, not in a settling kind of way, but in how you feel when you finally stop trying to solve a problem that was never actually a problem.
The twins and I have our definition of family, our rhythm of life that works for us. And yes, there might be room for someone else in this equation someday — but not because I'm incomplete without them. It's more like how you might add sprinkles to an already perfect ice cream cone: entirely optional, potentially delightful, but not at all necessary for enjoyment.
People have fascinating ways of asking if you're lonely without using the word. They'll say things like, "Don't you want someone to share your life with?" (I do — I share it with my kids, friends, and family). Or they'll offer well-meaning suggestions about dating apps, as if finding a partnership is simply a matter of not trying hard enough.
What's interesting isn't the questions themselves but what they reveal about our collective anxiety about solitude. We've somehow developed a cultural allergy to choosing to be alone, as if contentment without partnership is a contradiction in terms, like serious TikTok. The phrase "other half" implies that we're all walking around incomplete, which, when you think about it, is a pretty bizarre way to move through life.
I remember the moment this clicked for me. It was one of those perfect evenings when everything felt right with the world. I realized I wasn't waiting for anything—not for someone to come home, not for my "real" life to begin, not for some future version of happiness to arrive. I was just... there. Complete. Present.
Don't get me wrong — this isn't some manifesto against relationships. My partners brought joy, growth, and complexity to my life. But somewhere between diaper changes and dance recitals, I discovered something unexpected: being "good at being alone" wasn't a defense mechanism or a sign of being broken. It was more like developing any other skill — like writing or speaking a new language.
Being alone is a circumstance, and loneliness is a feeling. They aren't the same thing.
My twins once asked me why some people think you need two parents to make a "real" family. I remember thinking about how the strongest structures don't always follow traditional blueprints.
People often misunderstand the part about choosing to be single: it's not about closing doors. It's about being honest enough to acknowledge that you're already in a great place. The twins and I have built our little universe on inside jokes, impromptu dance parties, and the unspoken understanding that Sundays are movie nighttime with popcorn.
I often think about this when watching my kids navigate their understanding of relationships. They're at an age where they notice how other families work, how their friends' homes operate, and the different configurations of love and partnership in the world. As kids do, they ask questions that cut right to the heart of things. "Dad, if you're not lonely, why do people think you should be?"
The irony isn't lost on me; I used to be a person who couldn't imagine life without a partner. In my twenties, I was that guy — terrified of being alone with my thoughts, convinced that someone out there would finally make me feel complete.
Sometimes, I catch people looking at my life now with envy and confusion, the same way I occasionally look at couples who seem to move through the world in perfect synch. We're all secretly wondering if the other person has figured something out that we haven't. They see my freedom, my uncontested control of the TV remote, my ability to make decisions without running them by committee, and think: "Maybe I never should have..." Meanwhile, I watch them share knowing looks across dinner tables and wonder what it's like to have someone who automatically knows to bring you coffee when you're tired.
The journey from needing someone to complete them to feeling whole being alone surprises me the most. It wasn't a lightning bolt moment of enlightenment. It was more like a slow dawning, accelerated by the arrival of the twins and the realization that completeness isn't something someone else gives you; it's something you build, day by day, choice by choice.
What's fascinating is how this evolution has paradoxically made me more open to genuine connection. Every potential relationship becomes a "want to" rather than a "need to," which changes how I approach it.
The silence that used to feel deafening becomes contemplative. When I manage to sleep alone, the empty side of the bed becomes space to stretch out. My solo decisions become expressions of self-trust.
What's most surprising is how this comfort with solitude has rippled into every other relationship. I'm more present with my kids because I'm not constantly scanning the horizon for someone to complete our family picture. With friends, I can offer support without trying to fill the emotional gaps in their lives. And with potential partners, let's say there's something beautiful about someone who wants you but doesn't need you to feel whole.
The other day, I overheard one of my children explaining this to a friend: "My dad says happiness isn't something you find; it's something you choose—and sometimes you choose not to be happy, and that's ok, too." I had to smile at that. Kids have this incredible way of absorbing the complexities we try to teach them and distilling them into something pure.
Maybe that's what this all boils down to—not the presence or absence of partnership, not some perpetual pursuit of happiness, but the simple understanding that life is meant to be lived in full spectrum. For some, that spectrum includes finding someone who fits into their world. For others, like me, it's about embracing the understanding that you were never half to begin with. You were always whole—sometimes messily, sometimes imperfectly, but always wholly yourself.
I still get those well-meaning questions, especially around Valentine's Day or wedding season. "Don't you want to find someone?" they ask, as if life were a checklist of achievements to tick off. And I think about my younger self, the one who would have answered yes without hesitation, who thought love was something you needed rather than something you chose to share.
These days, my answer is different. Not because I've given up on love but because I've found a more profound truth: life isn't about maintaining some constant state of bliss. It's about being present for all of it — the quiet victories of single parenthood, the chaotic beauty of raising twins, the occasional pangs of wanting someone to share it with, and yes, even those moments of genuine contentment in solitude. If someone comes along who adds to that experience, that would be wonderful. But I'm no longer interested in the idea of completion. I'm already complete.
The twins and I have built something that doesn't fit neatly into society's flowchart. It's messy, loud, and sometimes complicated, but it's real.
Life isn't about finding your other half or maintaining perpetual happiness. It's about embracing your wholeness, riding the waves of joy, and sharing that authentic experience with whoever and whatever comes along.
As for being lonely? It's hard to feel lonely when you're busy being yourself.
For Further Reading:
In "Spinster: Making a Life of One's Own," Kate Bolick explores living on your terms in a world obsessed with coupling. Though written from a woman's perspective, her insights about choosing an unconventional path and finding completeness outside society's prescribed formulas resonated deeply with me. She weaves personal narratives with cultural criticism, challenging our assumptions about what makes life complete. If you've ever questioned the standard blueprints for happiness—or if you're learning to embrace your version of completeness—this book offers both validation and illumination.