Sitting at the church dinner, the announcement was made, “We have more grilled cheese sandwiches for anyone that is still hungry.”

I looked down at my empty plate. Yep, I was still hungry, but I wasn’t going to be “Seconds Guy.” Nope, I would resist the temptation, plus I had a backup plan.

My son, Sam. Sam was my backup plan. Sitting with his buddies, I could see that he had made only minimal progress on his soup and sandwich. Plus, in three minutes, he would need to help serve as a greeter with his confirmation class. Yes, in three minutes, Sam’s remaining soup and sandwich would be mine.

I patiently waited, but much to my horror, Sam scarfed down all of the sandwich except for the crust. 180 seconds and half of my second meal was no more.

I caught Sam on the way to the trash can. Oh, that crust and remaining tomato soup would be mine.

As Sam pranced off, I began savoring my newly acquired scraps. Life was good, as I dunked the crust into the soup. I smiled. I was not beyond such plate cleaning. I was okay with it. My tummy smiled, too.

Then from nowhere, Sam appeared. He had come back for his food. At first shocked that I was eating his food (remember, it appeared as if he was going to throw it away), he then claimed the remaining bowl of soup. Afraid that I would snatch it back from his hands (I thought about it), Sam proceeded to guzzle the soup. None remained. Sam pranced off again.

My tummy frowned. The soup was gone. My soul was sad. From this day forward, my son would most likely live in fear of having his father steal food from him. Somehow, my face still smiled. Smiled, because somehow this was the way it should be. A boy scarfs down food and a father yearns for the scraps. It was the way it should be, I was playing my role, and I was okay with that.