Page 142 of Faithful

We stand in front of the window for a bit, staring at the glittering surface of the lake stretched out behind the glass. It’s impossible to tell where it ends. The dark of the night has already descended onto the city, and now the only source of light outside, apart from the lights illuminating the property, is the silvery spill of the moon, which isn’t enough to find the horizon.

Something inside me begins to ache, perhaps all the good memories I made here with my sister resurfacing.

“What about Ava’s room?” I ask, almost expecting my mother to say something about Ava still being alive and able to take care of it herself. “You know he’s going to destroy everything inside.”

“I have a locksmith coming in a bit to install a new lock until we’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Go through her things and pack everything.”

We are quiet again for a minute.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” my mother asks suddenly, turning her head to look up at me.

“Definitely.” I nod. Wait a second. “Hey, Mom?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you think we can talk somewhere private?”

“Sure.”

She walks me upstairs and into the room that was once her bedroom. It’s just a space filled with various items now, some boxed up and some still in need of being organized.

“Where are you going to stay?” I ask as I shut the door.

“With Amelia. At her penthouse. She’s leaving for New York in a couple of weeks, so it won’t be that crowded.”

“You’re sure there’s room there for all the furniture you’re taking?”

“Oh, baby.” My mother laughs. “I’m donating it. Not bringing it with me.”

“I see.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my winter jacket because I don’t know how to begin this conversation. I’m terrified that after I reveal my secret, I’ll be rejected.

“What is it?” my mother asks, voice soft, and I wonder if she’s sensed my unrest.

“I have to tell you something…”

“Okay.” She locks her eyes on mine. “I’m listening.”

Fuck, why is this so hard?“I’m gay.”

The room goes abnormally quiet, almost as if everyone inside the house stopped moving at once to give us a moment.

“Mom?” I whisper, my right hand a tight, painful fist inside my pocket. “Say something.”

She finally makes a tsking sound with her lips. Her gaze has never left my face, never changed, never wavered. “It’s okay, baby. I love you all the same.”

I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest. A fucking cliché, but I don’t know how else to explain my emotions after hearing my mother–my once God-fearing, conservative, married-to-a-right-wing politician mother–telling me she doesn’t care that I like men.

“There’s a boy, right?” she asks carefully. “You told me you met someone.” A hint of a smile.

I nod, my throat closing up for some reason. I’m cursing myself in my mind, cursing myself for not having any faith in the woman who gave me life, cursing myself for thinking she’d desert me because I’m not straight.

The joke’s on me.

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