Page 566 of End Game

“Why?”

Dad looks at her.

I don't.

Because if I look at Mom right now, I may soften in ways I cannot afford.

“You're looking at why.”

She flinches.

I regret the cruelty before the sentence fully leaves me.

But I don't take it back.

Mom looks down at her hands.

Her wedding ring catches the lamp.

“We would have helped you.”

I do turn to her now. “No.”

Her eyes lift. “Yes, we would.”

“With what?”

She opens her mouth.

Nothing comes out.

“The part of me that likes men isn't a problem I needed help with.”

Dad's expression hardens.

Mom's fingers twist together. “There was that program Joan sent her son to.”

The room narrows visually as my mind spins.

Her face becomes sharp while everything behind her loses focus.

“No.”

She blinks. “Honey, I only mean—”

“No.”

Dad sits straighter. “Micah, listen to your mother.”

“There is nothing to cure.”

Mom starts crying harder.

I can barely hear her over the pulse in my ears.

“I don't think you're sick,” she manages in a broken voice.

“Then don't suggest treatment.”