The other day, my partner told me an anecdote about his daughters.

“So they were driving home from the coast,” he said, “and they stopped at ...”

The coast? I wondered. “What were they doing on the coast?”

My partner paused. “They were at a wedding,” he said. “So they were driving back and ...”

“Who got married?” I asked him.

He told me the name of the couple. “So they were driving and ...”

“What was the dress like?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Were there bridesmaids?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

“Was it formal or informal?”

“Oh my god,” he said. “Can I please just finish my story?”

I allowed him to continue, but honestly, I wasn’t that interested. What I really wanted at that point was intel about the wedding. And I was appalled at the scarcity of information my partner had. How could he not have asked what the bride was wearing? How could he not have enquired about the colour scheme?

I am constantly frustrated by the way my partner – and men in general – will recount an anecdote and skip the most important details. To be fair, they get frustrated with me in turn. When I ask for details from my partner, or son, or father, they look baffled, or mildly annoyed, as if I am going off on weird tangents that have no relevance to their story.

But these are not weird tangents! These are the details about which I am curious, the fundamental pieces of information I need to fully engage with the story. Their omission feels glaring and wrong to me, like a restaurant review that doesn’t mention the food, or a movie recount that doesn’t name-drop the actors.

You bumped into a friend of mine at a party? What was she doing there and who was she with?

I like to ask questions. I want the particulars. Whatever narrative you are sharing, I will require context and clarification. You’ve visited a friend in his new house? I am going to ask you why he moved. You’ve heard a married couple has split up? I will need to know who left who and why. You bumped into a friend of mine at a party? What was she doing there and who was she with? You went to a funeral last week? Oh no, how did the person die?

Anything to do with interpersonal dynamics will require multiple follow-up questions. You can’t say “she had a hard time at school” or “he’s not close with his parents” without expecting me to probe further. What happened at school? What did his parents do? And why on earth didn’t you ask?

Medical issues are particularly intriguing to me. A friend might cancel on us because of a medical appointment, and that will be sufficient information for my partner. It is not, however, sufficient information for me.

“What’s wrong with him?” I’ll ask.

“Something about a cyst?” my partner will say.

“A cyst?” I’ll ask. “Where? Is it big? How did he get it? Is it painful?”

My partner will sigh. “I didn’t ask him,” he’ll say. “Would you like me to text him now?”

Frankly, yes, I would. I cannot fathom why he hasn’t already. So many questions, so many details, so little interest from my man.

So often, I am thwarted. Time and again, the men in my life fail me. It’s baffling because they are all intelligent, curious people, who all read and think and listen and learn. They just don’t seem to learn about the bits of a story that are fascinating to me.

My son, for example, will mention a friend I haven’t heard of before, and I’ll ask where the person went to school.

“School? I have no idea, Mum,” my son will respond wearily. To me, this is a standard piece of biographical data. To him, it makes as much sense as asking what size shoe the kid wears.

My father might note that a friend of his has a new grandchild. Now, there is no excuse for mentioning a newborn without including the foundational details: the baby’s full name, gender, whether it is a first child or a subsequent, and, ideally, a brief summary of the labour. Well, I wouldn’t even bother to ask my father for the name. For him, “baby” is the end of the story.

Now, I understand why my questions annoy my menfolk. They just want to tell me their stories, and I am continually segueing into informational rabbit holes. To them, a cyst is a cyst, and a story is a one-way street. They start at the beginning and continue methodically until the end.

To me, a cyst is a question mark, and stories are portals into the human condition. They can meander and twist and turn and branch off into infinite sub-stories, all of which have branches of their own. As irritating as it is, if you tell me a tale, I am going to have questions.

For the wedding intel, I consulted my partner’s daughters. The bride looked great. It was semiformal. There were three bridesmaids. They all wore blue.

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