New York Times advice columnist Philip Galanes answers readers’ questions.

Q: Our only child is 33 and unmarried. We have a good relationship with her. She lives 30 minutes away from us, and we see
her frequently. She met a man three months ago, and he has now moved in with her. The problem: we would love to meet him and become part of their lives together, but she says she is not ready to introduce us yet. We have tried to set up various opportunities to meet him, but she refuses. She says it’s not him, it’s her. She wants the encounter to be “perfect” and is anxious that it won’t be. I feel hurt! We try to avoid talking about him, but he soon becomes the elephant in the room. She says she’s an adult, and it’s her decision. Should we respect her privacy? She seems happy. — PARENTS

A: My guess here — based on a thousand years of watching parents and children at odds — is that your daughter sets great store by your opinion, and she may feel that you have been critical of her in the past. This doesn’t mean you have a bad relationship, but it may account for her delaying the moment of inevitable judgment when you meet the boyfriend. Or she may be uncertain of the new relationship herself and not want to hear your opinions about it yet.

I may be wrong, of course, but even so, the smarter move here would be to reframe your question. Not: “How can I strong-arm an introduction from my daughter?” But instead: “How can I support her choices and happiness?” I recommend trying to make her feel safer. Because at the ripe old age of 33, she doesn’t need your permission to date anyone.

So, turn down the heat; there is no elephant here! The next time you see her, say: “Honey, introduce us to your boyfriend whenever you feel comfortable. No pressure!” You may also advance your cause by being upbeat and nonjudgmental about other areas of her life — not that you aren’t already. (Just be careful about unnecessary criticism.)

Thanks for having me! Sorry in advance for the Yelp review

Q: I was at a small dinner party where the hostess served a first course that I despise: cold cucumber soup. I thought I might gag on it. A friend suggested that the hostess should have offered me something else when the issue became obvious. I didn’t think fast enough to claim a food allergy. I felt bad, but what to do? — DINNER GUEST

A: You and your friend seem to have confused dinner parties with restaurants. At dinner parties, hosts invite us into their homes. They shop for food, prepare it, serve it and clean up afterward — all in the name of friendship. So, where’s the gratitude?

If you don’t care for something that’s served to you, just wait for the next course. Your host is not a short-order cook or obliged to create a second menu on the spot. And you will not suffer malnutrition if you skip a course. It doesn’t sound as if the host made an issue of your disliking the soup, so I don’t see the problem here, frankly. If I am mistaken and the host said something, reply: “Sorry, cucumber soup doesn’t agree with me.” No need to lie about food allergies.

Not your will, not your call

Q: Years ago, my parents discussed their estate plan with me. They promised not to include two estranged cousins as beneficiaries. (These cousins behaved terribly toward my parents!) After my father died, I discovered that the cousins are in my parents’ wills. I am their executor, and I have asked my mother several times to remove them from hers. She promises to do it, but never does. The last time I asked, she snapped at me. What should I do? — DAUGHTER

A: It sounds as if you’ve tried your level best to persuade your parents to disinherit your cousins. But you’ve failed. And it’s their money. If you feel unable to execute their wishes, you may refuse the executor role. But without a change in your mother’s will — which she seems unwilling to make — you may not extinguish the bequest to the (nasty) cousins.

Losing her cool over the saving of seats

Q: I belong to a social club of international ladies living in Italy. It’s made up of friends, acquaintances and newcomers to the area. We meet for drinks once a month. It’s not a cocktail party; we are seated at a table. One woman arrives late consistently. She asks a good friend to save her a seat, which ensures that she’s never placed at the edges of the table. Do you think this is fair to those who come on time? — PARTYGOER

A: Inevitably, we project ourselves into situations. So, I interpret this woman’s behaviour — her late arrival and desire to be seated near a friend — as a form of social anxiety. But you see it as an equity issue, and, in fairness, those at the centre of the table have a greater choice of possible conversation partners than those at the edges. But open seating is often a crapshoot: you may find the most dazzling “international lady” at the very edge of the table.

Still, an empty space in the middle of the table may be awkward. If my empathy is misplaced or if the empty chair prevents easy communication, speak to the organisers or perhaps to the latecomer herself.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

Written by: Philip Galanes

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