Page 119 of Unstitch

Move over Rafe and your butt-nakedness in Mum and Dad’s kitchen.

I’ve just set our family on fire.

May as well toss another match onto the flames.

‘And you do know the guy,’ I say directly to Dad. ‘He’s Max Hunter.’

My father, one of the most articulate people I know, is completely mute, his mouth set in a grim line while those eyeballs of his wrestle against his blood pressure. I can’t help but wonder if, deep down in a place he’d never admit even to himself, he’s impressed that I landed Max.

Because I certainly fucking am, and Dad just spent a full fifteen minutes telling me what a high quality team Max is running. Whether he doesn’t know or, for once, doesn’t care that Max is queer, I’m unsure. Maybe astounding corporate success is cause to overlook loose morals in Dad’s eyes.

Fuck knows.

Mum glances at him, probably looking for clarity as much as checking for possible cardiac arrest. She’s always done this—always looked to him for guidance. It’s a reflex so hardwired after thirty-something years of marriage that she can’t help it, even when she knows he’s full of shit.

When no clarity is forthcoming, she turns back to me.

‘I don’t understand,’ she says like she’s genuinely baffled. ‘You say you’re in a relationship with Max and with this girl, Darcy?’

‘I am.’ Maybe I’ll just talk to her while we wait for the pressure cooker next to her to explode and give us all third-degree burns. ‘Max and Darcy got together shortly before I met them. We all feel very strongly about each other, and we want to make a go of it. Max has always been openly queer, but I wanted to talk to you about it before we went public with our relationship.’

My father’s jaw drops open. That’s done it—if his horror at my moral transgressions wasn’t enough to send him over the edge, the horrifying prospect of his son’s queerness being muttered about all over the City is.

I wonder which he’ll attack first—my polyamory or my queerness?

‘The Bible is very clear on this,’ he says, slamming his fork down with the weight of a judge passing judgement with his mallet.

I almost laugh. ‘Yeah, the Bible’s views on homosexuality tend not to be given much credence these days, Dad.’

Belle gives me a tiny, impressed smile, like who is this badass and what have you done with my brother?

‘Not just—that. On all of these… practices you speak of. A man shall have one wife and a woman one husband. St. Paul is very, very clear. To allow a third party, or anyone else, into your relationship is to tempt Satan. These are the rules that Christianity is built on—not just Christianity, but the very basis of civilised society.’

When he starts quoting the Bible, the anger flares, licking at my soul with a wrathful tongue.

‘That only matters if you care what the Bible says. What St. Paul says. I don’t. It’s not how I live my life. I rejected that framework a while ago, and I would have rejected it far earlier if I’d ever been given the option.’

He flinches. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘I never chose Catholicism. You chose it for me. And it was never, ever served up to me as an option, only as absolute truth. It’s not for me—it’s not the right framework.’

‘This is not how we raised you,’ Dad says with terrifying intensity, practically spitting the words out through gritted teeth. ‘Just because you’re a lapsed Catholic, it doesn’t mean you can sink into moral corruption.’

Ah, here we go. Catholics love the word lapsed. It suggests that anyone who’s abandoned their faith has done so out of laziness, or ethical apathy, or an inability to hack the uncompromising demands of this faith. Not because they’ve made a measured choice to walk away from a religious framework that doesn’t serve them.

But I’m not here to eviscerate the man.

I’m here to tell my truth and set myself free.

‘It’s obviously very hurtful to me that you would condemn my relationship as morally corrupt before you’ve bothered to understand the slightest bit about it,’ I tell him, ‘but I’m afraid it’s not surprising. And no, you certainly didn’t raise me to find love outside of what the Church deems acceptable, but there comes a time when a man has to decide for himself what’s right.’

Dad’s face is twisted with disgust, and I suspect he’s not even listening properly. Whatever I say, he’ll tune out—he’s retreating into himself before my eyes. The moral rectitude of what I’ve done is not up for discussion, because he’s so certain of where God stands on this that he has no intention of entertaining my attempts at justification. The blinkers are well and truly on.

‘No man decides what is right,’ he snaps. ‘The Church decides what is right, and we sinners plough on and try our very best, and we seek His mercy when we stumble. We do not throw away our values to embark on a relationship that is the epitome of wickedness. Because mark my words, whatever disgusting, unnatural activities you’re indulging in are the epitome of wickedness. And your only option, my boy, is to walk away from this madness and repent and throw yourself on God’s mercy, or you’ll be lost. Utterly, utterly lost in the darkness.’

And there we have it. I stare at him, and God knows, my body and soul are churning with such a mix of disgust and hurt and pity, because only one person at this table is lost in the darkness, and it sure as fuck isn’t me.

Everything he’s said is an exact replica of what Belle and I anticipated. He’s so predictable. So fearful, so closed-minded. He’s on the verge of tearing our family apart, and it’s entirely his choice—except it’s not really a choice, if I think about it. There was never any choice. He’ll always side with his beliefs. He did it with Belle, and he’s doing it again now.

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