“I had my fears when he finally came out. Not because I didn’t love him. I did. But in this world?” She pauses. “In the world we lived in… being a gay kid and selling drugs—God, I didn’t know how to protect him. I didn’t know how to fix it.”
Her cigarette is nearly gone. She stubs it out with trembling fingers, then reaches for another, but her hand shakes too much. She curses softly under her breath and rests her elbow on the table, rubbing her temple.
“Lucas was fourteen when I met John,” she says finally, voice hollow. “He was the janitor at his school. We hit it off quickly, and three months later, I let him move in.”
Her voice trails off, and I already know where this is going. I feel it in my bones.
“Lucas was against it. Hated the idea. We fought a lot. Screamed at each other. I hadn’t lived with anyone since Hunter… I just—” she exhales, shaky and wet, “I was tired of being alone, and after lots of arguments that he didn’t win, John finally moved in with his son, who was a high school senior.”
She lifts her eyes to me. Red-rimmed. Empty.
“That’s when I really started failing my son.”
The silence that falls between us is unbearable. It roars in my ears louder than her words.
I look at her, this woman who gave birth to the boy I now care about more than anything in the world, and I don’t know what to think of her.
“I never knew John’s son, Tim, bullied Lucas at school,” she says, voice brittle. “Never knew he called him a druggie… a faggot. Spread rumors that Lucas was sleeping with men for money.”
Her words hang heavy in the air like smoke, toxic and slow to fade. I feel my hand curl into a fist, my knuckles going white from how tight I’m holding back.
“Lucas never told me any of it,” she whispers. “Not one thing. I guess… I guess he stopped believing I’d listen. We started growing distant after John and Tim moved in, and I… I was too wrapped up in John’s affection to see what was happening to my own son.”
A tear rolls down her cheek, but it doesn’t move me. Not yet. Not enough.
“Keep talking, Kathryn,” I say, voice low and hard—gravel pressed through gritted teeth.
It’s the first thing I’ve said since she started unraveling this nightmare. And when I speak, she flinches like I’d struck her. She must see it now, the fury in my eyes, the restraint in my jaw. She swallows, dabs her cheek with the back of her hand, and takes a slow drag from her cigarette.
“On his fifteenth birthday…” she begins again, voice hoarse, “I gave him a camera. An expensive one. He’d always wanted it—told me he wanted to use it to vlog and do YouTube videos.”
A flicker of something passes over her face. Something like regret and pride stitched together.
“He smiled at me that day,” she murmurs. Really smiled. First time in a long time. He was so happy. He carried that camera everywhere. Took pictures, recorded himself, his routines, his life. It made him feel seen, like he could finally be someone else. Someone who mattered.”
She stops.
Swallows hard.
Her hand moves to her chest like her heart aches from pulling the next memory out.
“A month later,” she continues, quieter now, “he came to me… said he had something to tell me. Said it was urgent. His eyes… God, his eyes were begging me.”
She blinks fast, tries to steady herself, but her voice trembles.
“I told him I was busy. I was getting dressed for Tim’s graduation. I asked if it could wait.”
I close my eyes, jaw clenching tighter.
“And the moment I saw the hurt flash across his face—I knew I’d messed up,” she says, voice cracking. “I wanted to apologize, to stop and listen, but John was already ushering me out the door. Said we were late.”
She finally looks at me.
And what I see in her face rips the breath straight out of my lungs.
“That was the day,” she says, barely above a whisper, “that I lost my boy.”
She takes a shallow breath, a tear slipping down the other cheek.
