Page 89 of Right Up His Alley

“No buts, mi amor. A parent’s job is to take care of their children. To love their children, no matter what. Your father and I have always been proud of you, and I know he’d be proud of the man you became.”

For what feels like the hundredth time today, fucking tears roll down my face. I’m so over crying, so over being a disappointment. I can’t stop the words from flying out of my mouth. “No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t because I’m tarnishing his legacy. He left the alley to me, to run after his death. But the thing is, Mom, I’m fucking miserable here. I run the alley because I know it’s what Dad wanted. And I know our livelihood depends on this place. If you asked me to run it for the rest of my life, I would. No hesitation. But it would wear me down, year after year, until I couldn’t even recognize myself anymore. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so fucking sorry.”

My words dissolve into a broken sob. I think I’m still talking, but nothing that leaves my mouth makes any sense—just fractured sounds, choked by grief. My chest heaves as I lean into the weight of it all—the darkness, the years of silence, of holding everything in so tightly it feels like I’ve cracked open from the inside.

I can’t stop now. It’s all spilling out. Every ugly, buried truth. Every shameful thought I never dared say aloud.

And she hears it. My mother hears every word, every raw confession. Now she knows. She knows what kind of son I really am. As if being miserable wasn’t punishment enough—I had to drag her heart down with mine, shatter it like I shattered everything else.

Two sets of arms are around me. I think I try to push them off, deny the comfort they give me, but their hold only tightens. Their tears mix with mine, our collective grief filling the room. I’m not certain how long we stay like this, but long enough for the tears to have dried up and for me to feel the fatigue settle in.

My mom’s the first to pull away, but I think Truett still holds me. His strong arms are a security blanket around me. Mom cups my face, forcing me to look at the pain I’ve caused her. The red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. I deserve to look at the damage I’ve caused, but that doesn’t mean I want to.

“Mijito, I need you to listen to me when I say this.” She pauses, as if waiting to see what I do.

Nothing. I do nothing, not capable of doing more than sitting here.

Her thumb gently caresses my cheek as she speaks. “This alley wasn’t, and has never been, your father’s legacy. He loved Spare Time, and he loved having you work beside him, but his legacy has always been you. You are the greatest gift he has ever given to the world, and he loved you more than life itself, even if he showed it in ways you didn’t understand.

“If he knew how you were feeling, he’d be so disappointed. Not in you, but in himself. He wanted you to chase your passions and dreams, just as he chased his. That’s what your father wanted from you. That’s what I want from you, Ezra.”

Her words hit me in the chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. My world shatters around me as a new one grows. “What?” My voice is hoarse from crying, sounding like I’ve eaten sandpaper.

“You’re a good son. The best son,” my mother repeats. “And I love you, no matter what you want to do. But you need to let me in. You close yourself off and pretend everything is fine. I can’t fix what’s broken if I don’t know.”

In every version of this moment I’ve played out in my head, not one of them ended like this—with acceptance. I always imagined anger, disappointment, maybe even silence. But not this quiet understanding.

Then again, I never really gave my mother the chance to understand—never gave her the truth. The same goes for my father. I saw how much they loved the alley, how proud they were of me for keeping it going. And I clung to that. I let it become the story I told myself: that I was doing the right thing, carrying on the legacy for my family. That their pride was enough.

But I never told them what it was costing me.

For the past year, I buried every doubt, every sleepless night, every quiet ache that told me I wanted something different. I convinced myself that duty mattered more than desire. That sacrificing my own happiness was the price of being a good son.

Maybe that was the real trap—not the alley, not the expectations, but the prison I built in my mind. I locked myself in, afraid to step outside the familiar. Afraid that if I failed at something new, I’d prove every unspoken fear was valid.

But now it’s all out. And she knows. And somehow… she doesn’t hate me for it.

And somehow, I don’t hate myself for it either.

Her next words shock the hell out of me. “It’s your art, isn’t it?”

“How… how did you know about that?”

“I’m your mother. I know everything.” She winks, and the tension in the room immediately evaporates.

A strangled laugh leaves my lips. It borders on hysteria, but I needed to release it.

Truett is there, kissing my cheek. His eyes are red-rimmed from crying, and although he doesn’t say it, I know he’s proud of me. It’s in the way he looks at me, with unbridled love and affection. Something I have wanted for so long but never allowed myself to have.

But given my mother’s response to all of this, I’m learning I’m allowed to live the life I want without guilt.

Well, mostly without guilt. I doubt that will ever go away. That will be a work in progress for a while. But now I know I have people in my corner, wanting to see me succeed.

My mom wraps her arms around both Truett and me. I’m surprised to see her lean over and kiss Truett’s cheek. “You’ve been so good for my son, Truett. So good.”

“He’s been good for me too, Mrs. Jiménez. I’m in love with him.” Truett flashes me a toothy smile, and I want nothing more than to take him in my arms and kiss him breathless again.

“How about this,” my mom says, glancing between us, “we’ll all go home—Truett included. I’ll cook dinner, and afterward, Ezra, maybe you can show me your art and tell me what you plan to do with it all? I have a feeling it has something to do with the tattoos all over your body.”