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I had to excuse myself to the bathroom, because being accepted that openly, without having to earn a place in their lives, overwhelmed me.

That’s what’s different about coming back now, to Bloomington, to this town that raised me and nearly broke me. This house isn’t the only place I have anymore. I have people who love me and support me now with no conditions attached.

That’s what I remind myself as I walk up to my parents’ house and feel that familiar knot of anxiety in my stomach. The house looks exactly the same with everything in its place, and I can’t help but think of our lopsided Christmas tree in Seattle and how it was my favorite one yet.

Before I knock, I take three deep breaths, the way Dr. Patel taught me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Grounding myself in my body, in this moment, in the choice I’m making to be here.

My phone buzzes.

Evan:

You got this. I’m so proud of you. No matter what happens, I’m right here.

I send back a heart and slide my phone into my pocket.

Time to do this.

I raise my fist to knock, and my mother opens the door wearing a cream-colored cardigan, perfectly pressed jeans and a stunned expression on her face. Her hair is shorter. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and I can tell she’s bracing for this conversation the same way I am.

“Marcus, hi. What a surprise.” She steps aside and lets me in.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Come in, come in. Your father’s in the living room.”

I follow her inside. Dad is sitting in his recliner, watching the Chicago Werewolves hockey game with the volume low. He glances up when I enter, nodding once.

“Marcus.”

“Hey, Dad.”

That’s the extent of our greeting, as usual. I sit on the couch, and Mom settles into the armchair across from me, her hands folded in her lap.

“So,” she says brightly. “What brings you here? How’s Chicago? How’s work?” I guess we’re just going to brush the last interaction under the rug.

“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about today.”

Her smile falters slightly. “Oh?”

There’s no point in sugarcoating this to make her more comfortable, so I just say it. “I’m moving to Seattle. I’ve already accepted a job offer and I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You’re moving to Seattle tomorrow?” The words hang in the air, and I can see the wheels turning. “Have you thought this through? Chicago is so close to home, and Seattle is... well, it’s across the country.”

“I have thought it through. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, actually. I’ve been applying to jobs for months.”

“And what about your apartment? Your job?” Her tone tells me that she thinks I’m being reckless, impulsive, irresponsible.

“I finished at my job last week and got out of my lease.” I tell her because I’m not incapable of figuring things out for myself.

“Are you sure about this? It just feels rash.”

“I’m positive,” I say calmly. “I’m moving toward a life I actually want to live.”

My mom’s lips press into a thin line. “And what kind of life is that, exactly?”

Here it comes. The reason I drove here to have this conversation face to face instead of over the phone, so I can say what I need to say and move on.

“I’m moving to be with my boyfriend. His name is Evan. We’ve been together for a while now, and we’re ready to build a life together in Seattle.”