The night before their wedding, as a joke, sort of, they gave me a red matchbox convertible--without a backseat. It was their way of saying that my days of being number three were over. It was a relief. You know? Not that I hadn't loved weekends in Maine or trips to Rochester, or the year of being the third wheel. I counted it a privilege and I'd do it again. I promise. But true confessions are that I was tired and I was ready for them to just be married and be together--without me.

I've been in the backseat again this week. Last night, driving home from San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge and through the city of hills, where it used to be three of us, happy to be quiet or to argue or to be, it is now four--and he was quite happy to exercise the vocal capacity he's been given by both of his parents.

I said to her last night, that there were times in the past few years when I hated being number three, but now, looking back I don't mind it at all. And, I added, though I hope that someday I'll be someone's number two, in the meantime, thanks for making me a part this final count.