I come to an abrupt halt in the doorway to the kitchen as the smell of decaying flower petals assaults my nose. There, on the island of countertop in the middle of the room, sits a vase of two week old daisies. Shriveled brown petals litter the granite around the base of the vase. The way they’re arranged reminds of a school of fish, washed up on shore and left to flounder hopelessly until they suffocate. Against the clear glass of the vase leans a pink envelope, the kind that comes with a card at a drugstore. I take tentative steps into the kitchen until I’m close enough to read the words scrawled onto the envelope: “I’m sorry” in familiar square letters. Although it’s closed, I know what the card inside looks like. It’s white with pale blue lettering that reflects the light. I’d found it hidden behind the odd assortment of Get Well Soon, Happy Birthday and Congratulations cards common for this time of year. The lone card I’d been able to find that somewhat suited the situation, I’d had to cross out the Happy Mother’s Day scrawled across the inside and replace it with an apology. Standing here two weeks later, I can plainly see the dust covering both the card and the vase. The water inside has turned brown with death, and it hasn’t moved from where I set it for Mom to find. I turn away quickly as the anger bubbles up inside me.


“What else can I do?!” The sound of my palm connecting with the stainless steel of the refrigerator sends Henry scuttling past me nervously, his tail between his legs. All I seem to feel lately is anger and frustration: anger at myself for causing my own mother to shun me, frustration with her for being so unreachable. No matter how many times Alexa tells me it isn’t my fault I can’t make myself sleep at night. She’s my best friend, I think, she has to say that. Mom’s nighttime noises have become a soundtrack to my incessant worrying. Maybe I could have done this...maybe I shouldn’t have told her in the first place! But no amount of thought circling does any good; the house is still silent and cold when I wake up.


With sagging shoulders, I make my way through the rest of the kitchen to the mudroom. Depositing my football bag on the bench, I start to unload all the dirty practice clothes bunched up inside. They go directly into the washer to avoid stinking up the whole house. I’m rescrewing the cap onto the laundry detergent when I hear heels on the tile floor behind me. I can’t help but whip around with a shy, hopeful smile on my face. Instead of acknowledging me, Mom tosses her teal, faux leather purse onto the bench and breezes right past me. All the optimism drains out of me and I fall back heavily onto the washer.


“I can’t do this anymore,” I mumble into my palms. It’s been three weeks to the day since I sat Mom down and told her I was gay. She’s spoken not one word to me since. The amount of anger and hatred in her face that first day had cut deep, but I’d take that over the complete denial of my existence she’s been in lately. I’ve taken to going straight to Alexa’s house after practice to avoid the silence of mine. Her mom makes dinner most nights, and gives me a hug despite my sweatiness. While her professor father isn’t much for football conversation, he does his best to engage me. Thought I know they’re both well aware of my situation, we never talk about it. Conversation around the tippy wooden dinner table revolves instead around college plans and the biggest news stories of the day. The corduroy armchair by a drafty living room window feels more like home to me than my own bed does these days. I’m thinking about heading to Alexa’s for the fourth night this week when I hear a noise in the kitchen. Rounding the corner, my gaze lands on the familiar plane of Mom’s back. She’s stationed in front of the open refrigerator, a green sweater thrown on over her work clothes and her coarse black waves spread across her shoulders.


“Hey.” My voice comes out quieter than I planned, catching in my throat. Her body stills, one hand frozen on the fridge door, the other reaching for a hunk of cheese on the top shelf. The only sound is the distant ticking of the basement water heater. I’m sure she’s heard me, but I consider slinking out of the room while her back is still facing me. Before I can escape to my room to lick my wounds, though, she’s turning to face me, her sweatered arms dropping to her sides. Her face is as blank as ever, but she’s making eye contact. I’ve missed her eyes; for the past three weeks, I’ve seen nothing but her eyelids covering her downcast gaze. Now, I lock eyes with her and see a nearly exact replica of my own clear greens staring back. When I was younger, Mom used to call me her peppermint patty. She’d compare my black hair to the dark chocolate exterior and my pale skin to the soft white fluff inside. My eyes were the pop of mint. I can see now how my personality is like a patty, too: bitter at first, but sweeter the longer you taste it.


“What?” Her voice is harsh and full of distaste. It’s quite obvious that she wants nothing to do with me or this conversation. A mixture of grief and anger rises in my throat. Forcing it back down the way it came, I open my mouth to speak, but hesitate. Snapping back will get me nowhere. I run the hem of my T-shirt between my thumb and forefinger a few times and regain my composure.


“Did you see the flowers? I guess daisies are pretty hard to find this time of year. They only had the one bouquet left.” Eyes narrowing, she pushes off of the counter and starts across the room towards me. The shiny heels she wears to work everyday tap out a rhythm with each step: click, I hate you; click, I want nothing to do with you; click, you’re not my son. When she’s in front of me, she squares her shoulders and lifts a hand. I don’t have time to react before the warm flat of her palm collides with my cheek. With one last vengeful glare, she shoves past me and out of the room.


The shock of the blow weakens my legs; I sink to the floor and lean against the island. My mind is reeling, unable to form coherent thoughts. The swirl of memories and emotions gradually begins to slow until my brain settles on just one: last night’s football game. It was parent’s night for varsity, and our last home game. The stands were packed despite the cold, but the sick feeling in my stomach had nothing to do with nerves. As the varsity players began to take their positions on the field for the ceremony, I hesitated by the gate. In my hands was a messy, homemade card meant for my mom. I’d made it under the impression that she’d have forgiven me by the time parent’s night rolled around. But standing there alone on the edge of the field, I knew that wasn’t the case. I shoved the card into a nearby garbage can and made my way out to the line up of players and parents. One by one, the sons presented their cards to their parents when their name was called. When it came to me, all I could do was shift uncomfortably and shake my head. I remember the looks on the faces of the crowd: pure pity. Alexa was halfway down the steps on her way to me when I caught her eye and waved her off. I slouched back to the bench. Under the blinding lights of the stadium, the redness of my cheeks was unmistakable; I was humiliated.


That game is a blur now. Sitting with my head in my hands, I can’t even remember if I played well, let alone the score. All I’m sure of is that when I slammed the door shut behind me that night, Mom didn’t even flinch from her place on the couch. Indifference was evident in her face; her gaze was fixed purposefully on the reality show on TV. Anger and bewilderment choked me, rendering my mouth useless. Tears mingled with the dried sweat on my face, tracing tracks through the salt and soaking the collar of my sweatshirt. Still, she refused to meet my eyes. I was halfway to the staircase before my helmet and duffle even hit the kitchen floor. The cream colored walls and family photos twisted together into a mess of color as I hurtled past them. My doorway was a welcoming slice of darkness. I dove through it, barely making it to my bed before my body went limp with exhaustion. The anger dissipated instantly, unlike the slow burn of its buildup. Lying on top of my rumpled covers, I felt wrung of any emotion. I’d fallen into a restless, dreamless sleep and woken this morning with a feeling of resignation.


I drop my hands from my eyes, wiping them clean of tears on my jeans. I’m strangely calm as I heave myself to my feet. Irregular, wheezing sobs have been replaced with slow, mechanical breaths. In a very calculated manner, my feet carry me up the stairs to my bedroom. It looks just as it did when I left it this morning, but foreign at the same time. The picture on the nightstand doesn’t seem to be of anyone I know; I flip it down onto its face. Closet doors flung wide make me feel oddly embarrassed, like I’m seeing a stranger’s messy home. Even the books on the bookshelf seem wrong somehow. I’m struck suddenly with the thought that I can’t live here anymore. Eager to leave the cloud of gloom that’s settled on the whole house, I drop to my knees in front of my dresser and yank out a drawer. Grabbing blindly, I load some clothes into the suitcase I store under my bed and zip it up. It takes only a minute or two to gather my shampoo, toothpaste and toothbrush from the bathroom. When I catch a glimpse of my swollen, tearstained face in the mirror, I recoil. I bend towards the sink and splash some cool water over my cheeks before patting them dry with a towel. There’s nothing left to do but leave now. The trip down the stairs goes far too quickly, and before I know it, before I’m ready, I’m standing in the kitchen. Suddenly, the thought of leaving is making me dizzy.


The smell of old daisies reaches my nose, pulling me to the vase. The flowers look sad, as if they know they’ve been rejected. In a moment of decisiveness, I pull the garbage open and toss them in, card, vase and all. With a newly clear mind, I stride to the door and reach for the handle. A movement to my right stops me, though, and I swivel to see what it is. There stands Mom, looking sad and more worn out than I remember. She’s fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of her sweater and looking at the place where the daisies used to be. Without her heels, the bottoms of her dress pants pool around her pale feet. She looks like a little girl playing dress up. Standing there, waiting for her to say something, I realize I don’t need to hear it. I don’t need her to apologize, to tell me not to go. What I need is to find out who I am when I’m on my own. With that, I turn the door handle and walk out.