Chapter 1 #2
“Hi, Momma,” I replied, setting her down. I wasn’t tall by any means, but my mother was several inches shorter than me. She gazed up at me like I hung the moon as she placed a palm against my cheek, her fingertips brushing the bottom of my large sunglasses.
“Oh, Atlas, my sweet child, I’m so glad to see you!
” She grinned, her chin-length silver hair—which was largely strawberry-blonde the last time I saw her—blowing in the breeze.
“Come in, come in! You have to tell me all about your trip here! How are things going with the move? Are you excited about your new job? Come inside!”
I chuckled as I reached into the car to grab my keys and phone. Then I locked the doors with the key fob as I trailed her into the house. She was still rambling about nothing and everything, and I suddenly remembered where I got it.
She led me to the kitchen at the back of her house where she had a small two-seater table already set for Sunday dinner. Motioning to the far chair, which I took, she busied herself with what I assumed was her putting the last few touches on our meal.
“Can I help?”
She tsked at me as she set a large bowl full of salad on the table, off to the side. I spied a potholder in the middle then, and a quick sniff of the air told me she’d probably made the absolute best entrée in the wor—
Momma set a glass serving dish full of steaming lasagna on the potholder with oven mitts and beamed at me. “Your favorite!”
I smirked then made a show of breathing it in. “Ohhh,” I all but moaned, drawing out the word. “It smells delicious, Momma, thank you.”
Her hand cupped my jaw again, and I smiled at her warmth. God, how I’d missed this. Missed her. “You are so welcome, baby.”
She dropped to the wooden chair across from mine, and I widened my smile when she caught my gaze.
After a moment spent just staring at me, she shook off her wistful look and picked up the plastic spatula I hadn’t noticed lying on the table. “Here, honey, hold up your plate.”
Another smile played at the corners of my mouth as I did what I was told. Once a mother, always a mother. She’d probably always dish out the amount of food she wanted me to have, even when I was eighty. “Thanks, Momma.”
She grinned again as she served herself then poured us both a glass of what I knew was sweet tea, a staple in my mother’s house.
My teeth already hurt thinking about how sweet it would be, but I’d hydrate when I got home.
“Of course, baby. Now, before you tell me all about your trip here, what are your pronouns right now?”
I nearly teared up at her easy acceptance, though it had been this way almost from the beginning.
She’d taken a minute to wrap her head around the change, but then she’d done a ton of research, and we’d had a bunch of hard, honest conversations so she understood how my gender presented for me—which could change moment to moment or stay the same for days.
We’d fallen into an easy acceptance I hadn’t known I’d longed for really quickly.
I was so grateful for my momma.
“He/they, so either pronoun is fine.” It had taken me some time to get comfortable with never really knowing what pronouns would feel right in any given moment or situation, and they varied based on my level of comfort with the people I was around, too.
Most people used he/him. Despite my sometimes femme wardrobe and almost always fabulous makeup, that’s usually what people assumed, and that was fine.
He/they or they/he was for when I wasn’t completely sure and didn’t have a strong preference—and I listed the slightly more prominent one first—though as I got older, I found I’d started leaning more toward one or the other.
Lately, he/him felt like me more often, but they/them fit best for the days I liked to present a little more femme. Those closest to me usually asked.
In any case, I preferred gender-neutral terms over gendered, masculine terms like “man” and “guy”—except Daddy. So many in the community viewed that word as separate from a person’s gender, and I vehemently agreed.
Any he, she, or they could be a Daddy.
She patted my hand. “Okay, now, your trip. What did you see?”
As we ate, I relayed the highlights of my solo road trip out here.
Though it was a little lonely, I’d enjoyed my week-long drive through some beautiful parts of the country.
I’d taken my time and stopped at a few tourist spots along the way, even picking up a 3D magnet from Navy Pier for her, which I pulled out of my pocket and slid across the table to her.
“To add to your collection,” I said, nodding at her magnet-covered fridge. Her eyes lit up like I’d given her a thousand dollars.
As my momma pulled out her famous pecan pie—which I could never resist—the conversation shifted to my upcoming job.
Momma was friends with the mother of someone I’d barely known in high school, a player on the football team.
Ms. Willson apparently had her finger on the pulse of the town and had known that the local landscaping company was looking for a Marketing Director.
Surprisingly, the company was quite large for a small town like this because, though it was headquartered out of Gomillion, it had several locations nearby.
From the gossip my momma shared with me, the owner, Jeb, had found love here with his high school boyfriend and stayed.
She hadn’t blinked when she’d relayed this bit of news to me, which gave me hope that the town was not the bigoted, homophobic place I’d known it to be when I was growing up.
Or maybe that was just some of the asshole kids I went to school with.
Momma had been supportive of me the moment I expressed a desire to wear dresses, heels, and makeup at five, when I’d come out to her as gay at thirteen, and when I’d realized I was genderfluid at seventeen, right before I graduated high school.
She’d embraced all of it—and me, by extension—by taking me to the mall in a nearby town and buying me all the pretty things multiple times during the years I lived at home.
I distinctly remember one such shopping trip where I was in a dress and in tears near the dressing room because a group of teenaged boys had walked by, spewing some nasty comments my way.
Once they were gone, she’d grabbed my fourteen-year-old face between her hands, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Atlas, you were always meant to be glitter and sunshine and rainbows. Your beauty and passion for life will make some ignorant people uncomfortable, but that’s their problem, not yours.
Just because they can’t see how fabulous you are doesn’t mean you aren’t meant to be the amazing, incredible kid you are.
Don’t let anyone ever dim your light. You were born to shine. ”
I still took those words to heart nearly twenty-five years later.
“So,” Momma started as we carried our after-dinner coffee into her cozy living room and sunk into the battered old couch she’d had when I was a kid.
It was still supremely comfortable if my ass cheek didn’t find the one spring that had started popping through the cushion. “Anything else new in your life?”
I knew what she was getting at—she wanted to know if I was open to finding anyone special to “settle down” with now that I had moved back home. Though she’d stopped asking directly long ago, a child still knew their mother.
I nearly cringed but managed to keep my face neutral. “No, Momma, I haven’t found anyone yet. And I think I need to get settled in before I start looking, don’t you agree?”
She gasped, throwing a hand to her chest in mock horror. “Well, I never!”
I laughed until she joined me. When I’d quieted, I shook my finger at her. “I know your code by now.”
She smirked. “Can’t blame a mother for trying.”
I patted her knee before taking a sip of my half coffee, half sweetened creamer. “I know, Momma. I know it comes from a place of love. But I’m happy with my love life—or lack thereof—right now. If that changes, I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
“I’d appreciate that, my sweet child. You are incredible, and I just want to see you find someone to share that with, someone who will accept and celebrate every part of you.”
I bit my cheek to stop myself from blurting out the “not likely” on the tip of my tongue. I just smiled demurely and took another sip as Momma launched into another bit of gossip she’d heard from Ms. Willson.
It was nearly suppertime when I left for home, so I picked up a pizza and salad from the only pizza place in town and scarfed down a few pieces and the salad while I unpacked a good portion of the bedroom and kitchen.
I needed to start cooking for myself again; takeout was going to get old fast.
My resolve only lasted overnight, because as soon as I woke up, I realized I now had clean dishes but was sorely lacking in groceries.
That meant coffee and breakfast first—which I was absolutely going to purchase at the coffee shop nearby that I’d passed on my way into town—then I’d head to the local grocery store before the handyman came to get my internet working this afternoon.
And so my mundane life began.