I suppose it's amazing how quick life goes by when you have

Host: The evening sun hung low above the suburban street, melting into streaks of amber and rose that painted the sky like a fading memory. A faint breeze stirred the leaves, and the sound of children’s laughter echoed from a nearby yard — that wild, fleeting melody only childhood knows how to sing. Inside a small kitchen, a light bulb buzzed faintly above a wooden table. Two cups of coffee steamed between Jack and Jeeny, their faces marked with that particular tiredness that belongs only to people who have lived enough to understand how fast it all goes.

Jack: “You know what’s funny, Jeeny? People always talk about how long life is — how there’s time for everything if you plan it right. But lately, I blink, and a year’s gone. My son was learning to crawl, and now he’s asking about the universe. It’s like… time has a pulse, and I can feel it racing under my skin.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s alive, Jack. Time isn’t a clock. It’s a heartbeat — the rhythm of every little thing we love, and every little thing we lose. Steffi Graf said it right: ‘It’s amazing how quick life goes by when you have children.’ It’s because their growth measures our own.”

Host: Steam from the cups rose slowly, curling into the dim light like ghosts of unsaid words. Outside, a bicycle wheel spun, then fell still. The house seemed to listen.

Jack: “Or maybe it just feels faster because you’ve got no time to think. Every day’s a loop — school runs, doctor visits, dinners, bills. You’re so busy taking care of them, you forget to look up. One day they’re taller than you. Then they leave. That’s not poetry — it’s arithmetic.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the point. You’re counting time, Jack. I’m feeling it. You call it arithmetic, I call it grace. You see a list of duties — I see a sequence of miracles.”

Jack: “Miracles? You call spilled milk and tantrums miracles?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because someday, you’ll miss the milk stains. You’ll walk into a quiet kitchen and wish you could hear those tiny feet again. You’ll realize the chaos was the music of your life.”

Host: The wind outside grew stronger, rattling the windowpane. A child’s laughter drifted away down the street, swallowed by the evening. Jack’s eyes softened, but only for a second.

Jack: “You sound like every sentimental movie. Life isn’t a montage of cute moments, Jeeny. It’s work. It’s pressure. You spend half your time trying not to mess them up. Look at our generation — anxiety rates, burnout, parents drowning in expectations. Time doesn’t fly because of love. It flies because survival leaves no pause.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe survival itself is the miracle. You think history was any different? During the war, mothers raised children while bombs fell. They found time to sing to them in basements. In famine, parents shared their last crumbs so their children could eat. And you call that ‘survival’? I call that divine defiance.”

Host: The room held a long silence, thick as the smell of coffee and rain beginning to fall outside. Lightning flickered briefly, catching the silver in Jack’s hair.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing pain.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m redeeming it. Because if we don’t find beauty in it, what’s the point? You can measure your days in appointments, but I’d rather measure mine in moments — the first laugh, the first word, the first heartbreak. That’s what makes the ‘quickness’ of life worth it.”

Jack: “Moments fade. They slip through your fingers. That’s the cruel part. You spend decades building something that disappears the moment you look away.”

Jeeny: “Not disappears — transforms. You think the child who outgrows your lap leaves? No. They live inside the memory of who you were when you loved them most. That’s eternity, Jack — not the ticking of a clock.”

Host: A car passed by, its headlights sweeping across their faces like brief spotlights in a private theater of confession. Jack leaned back, fingers tracing the edge of his cup, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You know… I used to film everything. Every birthday, every dance recital. I thought if I captured it, I could slow time. But watching those videos now — it hurts. It’s like looking at a world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Jeeny: “Because it doesn’t. That’s the price of love. You’re not supposed to freeze it — you’re supposed to feel it, and let it go.”

Jack: “So, what? Just accept that it’s slipping away?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because that’s how it gives meaning. If time stood still, love wouldn’t matter. It’s because it ends that it’s sacred.”

Host: The rain began to tap steadily on the roof, a slow, rhythmic percussion that filled the pauses between their words. The air smelled of wet earth, of change, of everything that quietly passes yet somehow remains.

Jack: “You ever wonder if they’ll remember us the same way we remember them? Or are we just the background of their story?”

Jeeny: “They will. But not in the way you expect. They’ll remember the smell of your jacket when you carried them through the rain. The sound of your voice reading a story. The way your hand found theirs in the dark. Not everything has to be remembered to be eternal.”

Jack: “You talk like a poet.”

Jeeny: “I talk like a mother. Even if I never have children, I know what it means to nurture something fragile and watch it grow beyond you — a person, a dream, a love.”

Host: The lamp light flickered, then steadied again. The room felt smaller now, more intimate, as if time itself had drawn closer to listen. Outside, the rain softened to a whisper.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why life feels fast. Because love makes us measure time differently. Before my kid, a year was just numbers on a calendar. Now it’s a series of goodbyes I didn’t see coming.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every day with a child is a rehearsal for letting go. That’s why it hurts. That’s why it’s beautiful.”

Jack: “So, the speed of life is love’s fault?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love is acceleration — it makes everything vivid, fragile, urgent. When you love, every second counts. That’s why it flies.”

Host: The sound of the rain eased, leaving only the distant hum of the city. The steam from their cups had vanished; the coffee lay still and cold. But something between them had shifted — a quiet understanding, an invisible truce.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe time doesn’t just go fast because we’re busy. Maybe it goes fast because for the first time, we’re actually living.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when you hold a child, you’re holding both the beginning and the end of yourself. That’s the miracle you called arithmetic.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes glistening with that soft light only sincerity can make. Jack looked out the window, watching the clouds break, letting the first strands of moonlight spill over the wet street.

Jack: “You think they’ll remember this? The small moments? The late-night talks? The laughter through tears?”

Jeeny: “They’ll remember the feeling. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two silhouettes framed by the window’s glow, the rain finally stopped, the world shimmering with the fresh silence that follows a storm. In that stillness, time itself seemed to take a deep breath — and, for just a heartbeat, stand still.