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I’m met by two shocked faces.
“You had to know I was gonna ask that, surely?” Though, maybe not. As a kid, I did whatever I was told. Including get out of their house. Not try to contact them. Not try to contact the family. I gave them space at the wedding, and it’s setting in that everything,everythingI’ve done is to make things easier on them.
“We … have been talking,” Mom says as though it’s difficult for her to get the words out. “You’re our son. And the years have been … this whole …” She waves a hand from me to Émile. “It’s hard on us.”
“And kicking me out when I was seventeen wasn’t hard on me at all.”
Émile chokes on a laugh beside me.
“Now that’s hardly fair,” Dad says, and he looks me in the eyes for the first time. I feel like a kid again, the one desperately trying to keep them happy, to make them proud, knowing deep down there was something really wrong with me. “You sprang this thing on us with no warning. One minute you were happy to go out with all the girls, and the next, you’re telling us you want to live in—”
“If the next word out of your mouth isn’thappinessorauthenticity, I’m getting straight up and walking out.”
“Uh …” He exchanges another look with Mom who glances at Émile again, before turning to me.
“We simply mean, it’s been a challenge. To know that someone we love was on a path that we might not have chosen for him. And we’ve been working on it.” Every one of her words is stilted. “And if you’ll have us, we would like to try to be part of your life again.”
The words are everything I’ve hoped to hear for the last ten years. I fantasized about it before the wedding, begging my phone to ring for years after I moved out. The first few months were the hardest, being so convinced that every text was them, every knock on the door. Telling myself over and over that they’re my parents and they have to come around.
They didn’t.
Until now.
And instead of sobbing and hugging them like I’d always assumed would happen, I’m … kinda empty. A little hungry. Palm still a lot clammy with poor Émile still clinging to it resolutely. And even though I’m not gonna be dramatic and think he loves me or anything, he’s shown me more unconditional love in the short time I’ve known him than my own family have in the last decade.
You deserve this.
Fuck … maybe … maybe I do.
“Why now?” I thought I’d regret asking, but I don’t.
Especially not when Mom’s eyes flicker—so fast I almost miss it—toward Émile and away again.
What.
The.
Fuck.
“It’s time, son.”
I look Dad dead in the eyes, refusing to feel like a disappointing kid anymore. “I’m not your son.”
“Oh, snap.” The words puff gleefully from Émile as red splotches stain Dad’s cheeks.
“You ungrateful little shit. We raised you, gave you a home and a future, and you threw it all away ten years ago, and now you’re doing it all over again.”
“Why. Now?”
“We want to know you,” Mom tries again, and to her credit there are fat tears building in her eyes. I get the feeling they’re less to do with me and more to do with Dad’s rising voice and the people close to us looking our way.
“Try again.”
“We’ve just … we’ve heard so much about you. From Josie. From Barbara. And seeing you at the wedding … we … wemissedyou.”
“And it has nothing to do with me?” Émile asks, casually leaning back in his chair and releasing my hand to stretch his arm around my shoulders.
“Why would it?” Dad snaps.
