You get to remember why Joanne and you have remained friends for so long, despite neither of you agreeing with some of the other's personal decisions: she understands you as nobody else does. She's also a good listener, so it is not a surprise that you end telling her everything over coffee and triple chocolate cake - no margaritas for any of you tonight. She usually gives good advice too, but this time she seems as lost as you. More, even: despite her three marriages, she has never been a mother.
He has to make his own decisions, is all she can offer before leaving you in front of your door, still a little shaken. Of course you know! Haven't you been stepping aside for weeks, stopping yourself from interfering? But one thing is not to act, and another completely different is not to think. And now that the idea has sprouted in your mind, you can't stop yourself from considering it.
The house is dark, which was to be expected. It is late, after all; you've never been out this late before. The kitchen's light blinks twice when you turn it on. Thankfully, the kids cleaned. You drop the parcel in the fridge without particular care, knowing Charlotte will not mind if her lemon meringue pie gets a little flat. And when you turn, the shelves are right in front of you, and you see it. Or, you don't see it. The six-piece glasses set was your great-grandmother's gift, something you have always taken special care of. One of them broke the day Chad was born, yet the rest survived both of your kids' early childhood.
But now only four are left.
You know that, were you to search in the trash can, the pieces of green translucent glass would be easy to find. You don't do it, though; your left hand already has one cut too much, and there's that little shard you left in your bathroom, right after finding it incrusted in your palm.
You turn the kitchen's light off.
There's a bundle in the bed when you carefully open the door. Your eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to notice is not your son the one under the covers. Unlike Chad, Ryan seems to favor sleeping on his back; unlike Chad too, Ryan seems to be a light sleeper, as he twitches and frowns when the door creaks. It takes him a while to relax back into deep slumber, and you wait with him before leaving to look for your children.
Chad and Charlotte are sleeping in your room, as you expected - her bed is too short for either Chad or Ryan, as is the living room's couch. Your daughter, you know, probably had a hard time trying to get to sleep; you must have really scared her. You must have scared Chad too, as he wakes up with a startle when you move his right arm to a more comfortable position. He tries to get up, fights with the blankets, drowsily explaining that Ryan said he would leave as soon as you arrived.
You say nonsense and push him back, tucking him in like you used to when he was much younger. He smiles, still half sleep, before sighing contently and closing his eyes. He's lost to the world less than a minute later, a soft grin on his face, and it makes you remember what you told Joanne: many mothers think there's not a woman good enough for their sons. Many think they know what's best. But how many, other than you, are selfish enough to wish their sons were gay, just because they don't approve of their decisions?
You truly must be the worst mother in human story.
