The garden was replaced with stone.
My calloused fingers no longer pressed seeds into the earth. Instead, they held onto the worn fabric of my shirt as if I could keep myself together in the face of sorrow too vast to understand at such a young age.
Standing on the back porch, staring at the now renovated backyard, I imagine the symphony of buzzing bees Mom described once. But the only noise I can hear is coming from inside the house.
"Ben! Gid your fuggin' faggoty ass in here. Now!" Dad's slurred words cut me. He's called me every name he could think of before. He doesn't mean anything by it. He's just angry that Mom's gone, and he needs to let that anger out. I’m usually the target.
If I say it enough, maybe one day I'll start to believe it.
Walking into the living room, Dad's sitting on the couch with an empty beer bottle in his hand. My stomach churns.
"Yeah, D-Dad?" I hesitantly ask.
At first, he doesn't say anything. He just stares at the empty bottle. Goosebumps on my arms cause my fight or flight reflexes to engage. When Dad finally looks at me, his eyes are red and his pupils are dilated.
What did I do that has him so angry this time?
"Yous got thir-thirdy mins to collect your shit and gid outta my house." He seethes.
My brain spins and my vision blurs.
What is he talking about?
"Did I do something wrong?" Mom's words from all those years ago aboutbeing kind no matter whatcircle my thoughts. I have always been kind. I obey my father in fear of the consequences. I do my chores. I…I don't understand.
"Dad?" I finally croak out after a few minutes. My eyes sting and I hold back the tears.
Dad slides my phone onto the coffee table, and I didn't even realize he was holding it in his other hand. My Instagram account is open. On the screen is a gay couple that I follow. In this particular photo, they are hugging a cute puppy–shirtless.
"It's hard nuff havin’ a son that’s a retard, but now he’s a faggot, too? Too much. You need more help than I have the energy for. Jus’. Gid. Out." He doesn't even look at me when he says those last three words.
"Dad. I'm only sixteen. Where will I go?" The tears are flowing freely now. I don't care.
"Not my problem." Dad stands, sways a bit, and then walks to the doorway to their–his–bedroom and turns to look at me one last time. "There's a box on the kitchen counter. Take it wid ya."
After loading up my duffel bag and backpack, I grab the box from the counter without looking inside and close the front door behind me.
Saying goodbye to the only life I know.
With a deep, ragged breath, I force myself to walk, remembering my time in the garden. The garden that once was a sanctuary, a place of creativity, laughter, and love. I no longer have seeds or jars or my Mom's guiding hand, but I have the memory of her words."Life is a beautiful, messy symphony."
Maybe someday it could be that again, but on my own terms.
Chapter One
__________
Jason
"So," Grayson starts, his voice laced with amusement, "spill the kindergarten-grade disaster details." His soft chuckle comes from the doorway where he's leaning against the frame, eyes taking in the chaotic mess that is my current classroom.
I right one of the small, child-sized chairs that is tipped over before slumping into it, checking the clock on the far wall. It's my lunch period, and Grayson's conference period. He teaches fourth grade upstairs and is my self-proclaimed BFF.
"Oh, we don't have time for that story. It contains a sticker war, temper tantrums, and one rogue juice box," a wry smile playing on my lips.
Grayson steps into my room, shutting my classroom door behind him.
"Sounds like a typical playdate with our group," he muses, and a bark of laughter escapes me. He's not wrong.
