Chapter 24
Adriel
Five months later
The restaurant is the same one they always use for this; neutral ground, equidistant from both his parents' homes, quiet enough that any tension between them won't draw attention.
They've been doing this every year since the divorce: the birthday dinner, one day early because Adriel always has plans on the actual day.
A tradition that none of them enjoy and none of them have ever suggested stopping.
Adriel arrived first. He ordered water, checked his phone. Tried not to think about the fact that he'd rather be anywhere else.
His father arrived next. He clapped Adriel on the shoulder as he sat down; too hard, the way he always did, as if affection required force to count. He looked the same as ever: broad, greying at the temples, dressed in casual clothes that he knew his mother would scoff at.
"Hey, kid," he said. "Happy almost-birthday."
"Thanks, Dad."
A silence settled between them immediately.
His father picked up the menu, studied it as if it contained something new, which it didn't, they'd been coming here for years.
They sat in it, the silence, the way they always did.
His father wasn't a talker. Not with Adriel, anyway.
He saved his ease for other people; his gym friends, his colleagues, the men he watched games with on weekends.
With Adriel, conversation had always felt like something he endured rather than enjoyed, a series of obligatory exchanges that neither of them knew how to make natural.
His mother arrived last. Immaculate hair, pressed clothing, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She air-kissed Adriel's cheek, gave his father a curt nod, the full extent of their interaction these days, and sat down, signalling for a waiter before she'd even fully settled into her chair.
"Adriel," she said, as if confirming his presence. "You're looking... well."
"Hi, Mom," he said.
His father grunted something that might have been a greeting. His mother ignored it. The table settled into the familiar grounds: his mother holding court, his father retreating behind the menu, and Adriel in the middle, the reason they were here and somehow the least important person at the table.
They ordered. His mother made small talk about people Adriel didn't know, events he hadn't attended, gossip that meant nothing to him.
His father contributed nothing, eyes on his phone between courses, occasionally nodding at something she said without actually listening.
Adriel went through the motions he'd been going through his whole life; nodded in the right places, made the right sounds, performed the role of grateful son receiving the gift of his parents' time.
Then the food came. And the commentary began.
"That shirt," his mother said, eyeing him over her wine glass. "It's a bit tight, don't you think? Maybe you should have gone up a size."
Adriel looked down at himself. The shirt was fine. It fit. Landen had told him this morning that he looked good in it, had kissed him before he left and said wear that one, the colour suits you.
"I like it," Adriel said.
His mother's mouth tightened.
"And your hair." She shook her head slightly. "Did you let them do whatever they wanted again? That style doesn't flatter your face shape. I told you to go to my stylist."
Adriel touched his hair without meaning to. Pulled his hand back down.
"It's fine, mom." he said.
She hummed. A noncommittal sound that somehow managed to convey disagreement.
Adriel glanced at his father. He was cutting his steak, eyes on his plate, mouth shut.
The same posture he'd held through every one of these meals, every one of these comments, for Adriel's entire life.
Not agreeing, not disagreeing. Just absent.
Checked out. As if the things being said to his son were background noise, someone else's problem, nothing that required his involvement.
They ate for a while in silence. Or they ate; Adriel pushed food around his plate, his appetite fading with each passing minute.
"You know," his mother said eventually, setting down her fork, "my friend Grace sent me a new diet she's been trying out. Something with oranges and eggs. You like oranges, don't you?"
His father said nothing. Kept eating.
Adriel looked at his mother. He looked at her the way you'd look at a stranger, someone you were meeting for the first time.
He took in the perfectly styled hair, the expensive clothes, the careful makeup designed to hide every imperfection.
He took in the way she held herself, stiff and rigid, like she was afraid of taking up too much space even as she tried to fill every room.
Then he looked at his father. At the man who had never once, in Adriel's entire life, told his wife to stop.
Who had never said leave him alone or that's enough or he's fine the way he is.
Who had, when a ten-year-old Adriel came to them crying about being bullied for his weight, looked at him and said well, is it bullying if it's true?
The man who suggested the gym every time they spoke, who made exercise sound like medicine for the disease of being Adriel, who loved his son in theory and had no idea what to do with him in practice.
He looked at both of them. And for the first time, he didn't feel small.
He felt done.
His mother was still talking. He heard the words but they washed over him, meaningless.
The same script she'd been reading his whole life, delivered with the same I'm only saying this because I love you tone that was supposed to make it okay.
His father was still silent, still absent, still performing the role of the parent who doesn't get involved, as if neutrality in the face of cruelty was something to be proud of.
She kept talking. Didn't notice that he'd stopped responding, stopped nodding, stopped performing.
His father didn't notice either, or if he did, he didn't care enough to comment.
They were both too caught up in their own patterns, hers of attack, his of retreat, to see that something in their son had shifted.
When she finally ran out of steam, she looked at him. Waited for his reaction. The flinch. The deflection. The quiet acceptance she was used to.
Adriel set down his fork.
"It must be really sad," he said. His voice was calm. Steady. He barely recognised it.
His mother blinked. "What?"
"To be so insecure," Adriel continued. "So obsessed with appearances. So afraid of being yourself in fear of what everyone else might say. So unhappy with your own life that you feel the need to tear other people apart just to feel a tiny bit superior. Just slightly better than someone else."
Her mouth opened. Closed.
"And for that person to be your child," he said. "Someone who came from you. Someone you're supposed to love unconditionally. That's just..." He shook his head slowly. "Tragic, really. Devastating."
His mother's face was shifting; shock, then offence, then something that might have been the beginning of anger.
"I pity you, Mom," Adriel said. "I really do."
He turned to his father before she could respond.
His father had stopped eating. His fork was suspended halfway to his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and discomfort.
"And you," Adriel said.
His father blinked. Set his fork down slowly.
"You just sit there," Adriel said. "Every time. You hear everything she says and you sit there and you say nothing. You have never, not once, told her to stop. Not once told me that I was fine the way I was. You just... opt out. Like it's not your problem. Like I'm not your son."
His father's jaw tightened. "Now hold on…"
"No," Adriel said. "You don't get to hold on.
You've been holding on my entire life. Holding on to the idea that silence makes you the reasonable one, the calm one, the one who doesn't get involved.
But not getting involved isn't neutral, Dad.
It's a choice. And every time you chose to say nothing while she picked me apart, you were telling me the same thing she was; that she was right.
That I deserved it. That I wasn't worth defending. "
His father stared at him.
"I came to you when I was ten," Adriel said, and his voice didn't waver but something in his chest did.
"I was being bullied. Kids at school, every day, because of my weight.
And I came to you because I thought… I thought my dad would help.
And you looked at me and you said, well, is it bullying if it's true? "
The table was silent.
"I never came to you again after that," Adriel said. "Not about the bullying. Not about anything. I stopped asking either of you for help, because I learned that asking just gave you another opening to tell me everything that was wrong with me."
His mother's face had gone rigid. His father was looking at the tablecloth.
Adriel leaned back in his chair.
"Yes," he said. "I am big. I have a belly and thick thighs and chubby cheeks. I have stretch marks on my hips and soft skin and a body that doesn't look like the ones in magazines."
Both of them stared at him.
"I also have a top university degree. I have a job that I love and that I'm excelling at.
I have friends who love me, who show up for me, who held me when I was falling apart.
I have a home, a small one, sure, but it's mine.
I have a life that I built, with my own hands, despite everything you both did to convince me I couldn't."
He paused.
"And I have a boyfriend."
His mother's expression flickered. His father went very still.
"A wonderful man," Adriel continued. "Who loves me for me. Who doesn't want to change me. Who accepts me and appreciates me for all that I am; not just how I look."
He thought of Landen. Of his hands on his body, his mouth on his skin, his voice in the dark saying you're perfect, you're beautiful, you're mine. Of the way Landen looked at him like he was the only thing in the room worth looking at.