Thanks, Dads - 1. Thanks, Dads

Ryan Langley, seventeen and chronically unimpressed, had made exactly three promises to himself this school year:

1. Prevent any more of his socks from becoming condemned sacrifice victims.

2. Figure out whether “professional gamer” was a real career or just unemployment in disguise.

3. Stop letting his dads emotionally blackmail him.

He was failing successfully on all three counts.

His English teacher always did say he had range.

Case in point: it was 9:37 p.m. on a Thursday, and he was halfway through a slab of leftover lasagna dense enough to qualify as a low-level threat.

Across the kitchen island sat both of his dads, dressed in matching “soft glam pajama sets” (their term, not his), sipping tea with the serene, conspiratorial confidence of two parents poised to pounce and inflict emotional damage.

All that was missing was Elton, their ancient pug who passed judgment with every snort and demanded a cotton offering for every offense. He’d already been escorted to bed after swallowing his fourth sock this week.

Being a pug judge, or pudge, was exhausting work, after all.

“So,” said Lee, Dad #1, who once gave a TED Talk titled Healing Through Hostility to promote his bestselling trauma-bond cactus plushies, tiny green jerks that screamed “You succulent!” and “Such a prick!” whenever you reached for closeness. Because nothing says healthy coping like self-inflicted verbal abuse from a felt plant.

“So,” Ryan echoed mid-bite, bracing for impact.

The room was too quiet. The tea too steeped.

This had all the signs of one of those talks.

Someone was about to use the phrase “we just noticed.”

“We noticed,” said Jack, Dad #2, a lawyer who once drafted a cease-and-desist letter to Lee during a Monopoly game, “that you submitted your college apps.”

Ryan froze, fork mid-air. “... Okay?”

Lee nudged Jack. “Tell him.”

Jack frowned. “No, you brought it up.”

“You have the eyebrows of concern. That’s your department.”

“I always do it.”

“Consistency is charming,” Lee pitched.

Ryan stared at them. “Do I need to leave the room so you two can flirt over my academic future?”

Jack cleared his throat and locked eyes with Ryan in that way only a public defender could. “We just wanted to talk about your personal essay.”

And just like that, the vibe shifted.

The lasagna now tasted like regret.

Ryan immediately stopped chewing. “What essay?”

“The one titled My Life With Two Dramatic Roommates Who I Guess Are Also My Dads,’” Lee offered brightly, holding his mug like he was about to toast a betrayal.

Ryan dropped his fork. “You read that?”

“It was on the counter,” Jack argued, as if that was a legal defense. “Next to the toaster. Technically discoverable.”

Ryan buried his face in his hands. “God. I should’ve just written about getting pantsed in gym class. That would’ve been less humiliating.”

Jack leaned in. “It’s good, Ryan. Genuinely. Your voice is strong. Prose is clean.”

“But,” Lee cut in, “you described our marriage as ‘two theater kids who got tenure in domestic drama.’ Which... I mean, accurate. But ow.”

“You also said we weaponize bathrobes. In public,” Jack added with a smirk. “And that Lee’s idea of conflict resolution is ‘passive-aggressive hummus.’”

“Which isn’t even a real thing!” Lee squawked, holding up a finger. “I just happened to bring dip to the PTA meeting where Janet started it.”

Ryan sank further into his stool. “It was a joke.”

“It was a read,” Jack said, sipping his tea. “And a compelling one.”

Ryan groaned.

Jack set his mug down with the kind of Ned Stark 'winter is coming' energy that could only mean a Dad Speech™ was incoming. “Look, we just want to make sure this wasn’t your way of saying you need space.”

“Or fewer game nights. Or less Beyoncé discourse at dinner,” Lee added.

Ryan blinked. “You watch Lemonade like it’s your religion."

“It’s cultural literacy,” Lee corrected. “Also Mondays. Not Sundays. Get your shade right.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I was trying to be funny. Like satire, you know? It’s not that deep.”

Lee lit up. “Oh! Like when you said, ‘My dads have two modes: lovingly overinvolved and aggressively candle-scented.’ Hilarious.”

“I said that in a draft,” Ryan groaned louder. “How deep did you snoop?!”

“You left version history open on Google Docs,” Lee shrugged. “Rookie mistake.”

Jack clapped a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “All jokes aside, we’re proud of you. Even if your description of our parenting style includes phrases like ‘pep talks that feel like TED Talks in drag.’”

“That one was a compliment,” Ryan muttered, his gaze fixed on the countertop. “Sort of.”

Jack smiled softly. “We got that.”

Lee’s voice was quiet. “You really captured us.”

Ryan swallowed, his cheeks growing warmer. “It wasn’t about dogging you. I just wanted to write something real. Funny. Honest. That’s all.”

Lee nodded solemnly while Jack gave Ryan’s shoulder a quick, fatherly squeeze.

“You did, son,” Jack said, his words gentle but weighted with everything he didn’t say.

That landed.

Hard.

And it annoyed Ryan with how much that meant to him.

He let out a low, frustrated growl, equal parts guilt and exasperation, as he stood abruptly. “Fine. I’ll write a new essay. One that doesn’t encourage my parents to read my Google Docs like it’s fanfiction.”

As he stomped off, Lee called out, “At least spell my name right this time!”

“I changed it to Larry on purpose!” Ryan shouted back.

Jack chuckled as the door slammed. “Do you think we traumatized him?”

Lee sipped his tea with a smug smile. “Please. We inspired him.”