His mother's face was shifting; shock, then offence, then something that might have been the beginning of anger.
"I pity you, Mom," Adriel said. "I really do."
He turned to his father before she could respond.
His father had stopped eating. His fork was suspended halfway to his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and discomfort.
"And you," Adriel said.
His father blinked. Set his fork down slowly.
"You just sit there," Adriel said. "Every time. You hear everything she says and you sit there and you say nothing. You have never, not once, told her to stop. Not once told me that I was fine the way I was. You just... opt out. Like it's not your problem. Like I'm not your son."
His father's jaw tightened. "Now hold on…"
"No," Adriel said. "You don't get to hold on. You've been holding on my entire life. Holding on to the idea that silence makes you the reasonable one, the calm one, the one who doesn't get involved. But not getting involved isn't neutral, Dad. It's a choice. And every time you chose to say nothing while she picked me apart, you were telling me the same thing she was; that she was right. That I deserved it. That I wasn't worth defending."
His father stared at him.
"I came to you when I was ten," Adriel said, and his voice didn't waver but something in his chest did. "I was being bullied. Kids at school, every day, because of my weight. And I came to you because I thought… I thought my dad would help. And you looked at me and you said,well, is it bullying if it's true?"
The table was silent.
"I never came to you again after that," Adriel said. "Not about the bullying. Not about anything. I stopped asking either of you for help, because I learned that asking just gave you another opening to tell me everything that was wrong with me."
His mother's face had gone rigid. His father was looking at the tablecloth.
Adriel leaned back in his chair.
"Yes," he said. "I am big. I have a belly and thick thighs and chubby cheeks. I have stretch marks on my hips and soft skin and a body that doesn't look like the ones in magazines."
Both of them stared at him.
"I also have a top university degree. I have a job that I love and that I'm excelling at. I have friends who love me, who show up for me, who held me when I was falling apart. I have a home, a small one, sure, but it's mine. I have a life that I built, with my own hands, despite everything you both did to convince me I couldn't."
He paused.
"And I have a boyfriend."
His mother's expression flickered. His father went very still.
"A wonderful man," Adriel continued. "Who loves me for me. Who doesn't want to change me. Who accepts me and appreciates me for all that I am; not just how I look."
He thought of Landen. Of his hands on his body, his mouth on his skin, his voice in the dark sayingyou're perfect, you're beautiful, you're mine.Of the way Landen looked at him like he was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"Which is the point," Adriel said. "Something neither of you have ever seemed to grasp."
His mother's face was doing something complicated. His father was still staring at the tablecloth.
"Because beauty is passing. It's temporary. One day, we will all be old and ugly. And then the only thing that will matter is what's inside of us. Who we are as people. How we treated the ones who trusted us."
He stood up. He took his time, letting them see him; all of him, the body they'd spent years trying to make him ashamed of.
"And I know," he said, "that even then, I will have him."
He looked at his mother. Then at his father.
"Who will you have?"
