Sometimes the world is much smaller than six degrees. Or: Don’t gossip at check-in.

People talk about six degrees of separation—the idea that everyone on earth is connected by six acquaintances or fewer.

They’ve obviously never lived in Boquete, Panama.

Here, it’s usually two.

I was talking long-distance with my son Geoffrey. For many years, he has helped manage a lovely old Victorian inn in Eureka, California, on the northern coast. He has seen and heard it all as people from everywhere come and go. His people skills are honed razor-sharp.

Last week, a couple checked in. Geoffrey noticed their address.

“Boquete, Panama.”

He smiled.

“Oh! I used to live in Boquete.”

That was enough.

Anyone who has ever lived in a small town knows what comes next. The conversation becomes a game of social genealogy.

“Do you know…?”

“Oh yes.”

“What about…?”

“Sure.”

The couple asked Geoffrey if he knew Howard. Howard is my former husband.

“Yes,” he replied. “I know Howard.”

Then Geoffrey asked them, “Do you know Dianne and Elizabeth?”

There are moments in life when it pays to stop talking.

This should have been one of them.

“Oh yes,” they said. “We’re good friends with Howard. Dianne is very difficult… and super butch.”

I nearly fell out of my chair laughing when Geoffrey told me the story.

Seriously.

Not because they disliked Dianne. She has never been burdened by a need to be universally adored—though most people with a lick of sense do adore her. She has very little patience for fools, bureaucracy, or people who mistake loud opinions for deep thinking.

As for “super butch”… well… I suppose that’s a matter of definition.

Strong-willed?

Focused?

Direct?

Unafraid?

Yes. I’ll grant them all of those.

But the best part of the story wasn’t what they said.

It was Geoffrey’s response.

He simply looked at them and said:

“Those are my moms.”

Then he calmly continued checking them into the hotel.

I have no idea what happened during the next thirty seconds.

I imagine there was a rather impressive silence.

I laughed for a long time, trying to picture it.

Then another thought occurred to me.

Women who have opinions and boundaries—women unwilling to diminish or rearrange themselves for other people’s comfort—have always been called difficult.

Or worse.

At seventy-five, I don’t much care. Whatever.

But that isn’t what stayed with me after Geoffrey and I hung up.

It was those four simple words.

Those are my moms.

He didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t qualify.

He didn’t explain our history, our family, or our journey.

He simply claimed us.

There are moments as a parent when you realize your children have quietly become exactly who you hoped they would be.

Kind.

Steady.

Loyal.

Comfortable in themselves.

Thousands of miles from Boquete, in the lobby of an old Victorian inn, my son reminded me that the world is astonishingly small.

And that family, however unexpectedly assembled, has a way of finding itself.

Sometimes…

…in just four words.

Those are my moms.