17. Myles
SEVENTEEN
MYLES
I'm standing at George and Cynthia's doorstep, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. I never thought I'd see the day when knocking on my in-laws' door would feel like stepping into a lion's den. Yet, here I am, taking a deep breath and rapping my knuckles against the polished wood.
"Come on in, Myles!" George booms, throwing open the door with a grin that could rival the Cheshire Cat's. "We've been waiting for you!"
"Thanks," I mutter, walking inside and taking in the familiar scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafting through the air. It's a cozy scene, all soft lighting and warm colors… but a cold dread has settled in my chest, making it hard to appreciate the ambiance.
"Sit down, sit down," Cynthia insists, bustling me into a chair at their dining table. "We were just talking about how well Nix is doing in school."
"Ah, yes," I reply, forcing a smile. "He's really blossoming, isn't he? Despite everything... Losing Cara…"
"His resilience is remarkable," George agrees, his eyes misty with unshed tears. "She'd be so proud of him."
"Speaking of Nix," I interject, hoping to steer the conversation away from the emotional minefield. "He loves that Bill Nye's VR Science Kit you got him for his birthday. He can't wait to start experimenting."
"Really?" Cynthia beams. "We thought it would be right up his alley."
"Did you see the pictures from his birthday party?" I ask, pulling out my phone and swiping through the photos. "He and his friends had a blast."
As we laugh over the images of Nix and his friends covered in frosting and silly string, I feel the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. Maybe this won't be so bad. Maybe I can get through this visit without stirring up any trouble.
Without a doubt, I had to address this thing that has been bothering me since my son’s innocent revelation about my in-laws. Clearing my throat, I decide to dive right in.
"Speaking of Nix," I say again, my voice wavering just a bit.
"He told me something interesting the other day.
He said that your church's pastor mentioned that gay people would go to hell.
Please tell me he's mistaken," I implore, my heart hammering in my chest as I search their faces for any sign of denial.
George and Cynthia exchange glances, the reluctance in their eyes evident. My heart sinks; Nix hadn’t misunderstood or made up anything. The hateful rhetoric was part of their church’s teachings.
"Uh, well," George stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s not like the pastor preaches that every Sunday or anything…"
"One time is enough!" I snap, barely able to contain my anger and fear. Because if they find out I've been developing feelings for a man, will they try to take Nix away from me? Or try to poison his mind and turn him against me? I don’t give a darn if they’re disgusted by finding out that I might not be straight. I'm too old to care about what people think about me. Plus, since losing Cara, I’ve learned that life is too short to live a life of regret, fixating on things I should have said or done but didn’t.
"Look, Myles," Cynthia says, her voice soft but firm, "we don't personally agree with everything the pastor says, but we've been going to that church for twenty-five years. We can't leave over one statement."
I can't believe I'm having this conversation. The people I've known and loved for over two decades, standing in front of me, defending a place that preaches hate. My heart pounds in my chest, threatening to burst out.
"Can't you?" I retort, my words dripping with sarcasm. "Imagine having the power to choose where you worship and which beliefs to support. Must be nice."
"Are you calling us homophobic?" George bristles, his face flushing red.
"I don't know. Are you?" I shoot back, my pulse racing.
"Of course not!" Cynthia exclaims, looking genuinely offended. "We’re allies."
"Then prove it," I challenge, staring them down. "Show me… and your grandson that you're not just sitting back and passively accepting hatred. Show me you're willing to stand up for love—all types of love."
Their expressions shift uncomfortably.
As the silence stretches between us, I can't help but wonder if I've crossed a line I can never uncross. But the ball is in their court now, and all I can do is wait and hope that they'll choose love over prejudice.
"Can you honestly say," I ask, the words tasting bitter on my tongue, "that you're okay with taking Nix to a church where they preach that gay people are going to hell?"
"Of course not!" Cynthia insists, her eyes wide with disbelief. "We were just as shocked as you when we heard it."
"Then why didn't you do anything? Why didn't you leave?" The questions hang heavy in the air between us, tugging at the strings of our relationship.
"Because it's complicated," George murmurs, almost too soft to hear.
"Complicated?" I scoff, feeling the heat of anger rise within me.
"You want to know what's complicated? Trying to raise a son without his mother.
Trying to navigate this world while keeping him safe and happy.
That's complicated." My voice trembles, but there's no turning back now.
"And now I have to worry about the subtle poison of intolerance seeping into his life through the people he loves? That is beyond complicated."
I feel deceived, as if I’ve only scratched the surface of who my in-laws truly are. After years of knowing them, I’m only now discovering that they were part of a congregation that endorsed such hateful beliefs.
"Did Cara know?" I demand, my blood boiling. "Did she know this was the kind of church you attended? One that teaches and preaches intolerance?"
George and Cynthia exchange glances, then Cynthia speaks up. "You already know Cara never hid her opinion about religion and didn't even want to get married in a church. She'd stopped going to church long before we'd started attending that one."
Ours was a beach wedding, and it was the best day of my life, right up until the day Nix was born. Those two days have stood unparalleled in my mind.
The fact is Cara and I hadn’t been particularly religious and barely went to church. We’d gone to obligatory weddings and funerals, and that was about it.
"We're not homophobic, Myles," George says, jolting me out of my musings.
"Not homophobic?” I shot back incredulously. “Yet you sit and listen to someone who condemns people simply for being who they are. They’re going to hell because of who they love?” My chest heaves with anger, and I can feel the bile rising in my throat.
"It's not like every Sunday the pastor says that," George tries to reason.
Oh, great. That makes it all better, doesn't it?
I scoff, rolling my eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of my head. "Once, twice, a million times—it doesn't matter; the pastor shouldn't have said that in the first place," I snap, barely able to keep my voice from shaking.
"Look, Myles, we—" Cynthia starts, but I cut her off.
"Here's something to chew on," I interrupt, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
"If you're saying you're not homophobic, that you’re allies, what have you done to prove it?
" They stutter a response, eyes darting between each other.
I press on, answering my own question. "Obviously not much, since you sit and listen to an intolerant pastor every Sunday.
" The room feels colder somehow, as if the temperature has dropped several degrees.
"Have you made any gay friends? Used your privilege—whether it's your physical or monetary resources—to support the LGBTQIA+ community, issues, or projects?" My heart is pounding in my ears, a mix of sadness and defiance fueling me.
They shake their heads, confirming my suspicions.
"No, we haven't," George says.
"Look, Myles, we understand how you feel," Cynthia says, attempting to placate me. "But leaving our church isn't as simple as just walking away. We have friends there, a community."
"Ah, yes, a lovely community that believes some people deserve eternal damnation simply because of who they love," I retort, the sarcasm rolling off my tongue. "Sounds like a real winner."
"Alright, that's enough!" George snaps, raising his voice. "We made a mistake, but we're not bad people. We'll talk to the pastor, try to make things right. What more do you want from us?"
"What do I want?" I rasp, my voice cracking with emotion. "I want to know that the people I trust with my son's life won't let him down. That they'll stand up for what's right, even if it's hard, and even if they’re standing alone."
We stand there, the silence as thick as a blanket, suffocating us with its weight. I can see the pain in their eyes, the love and confusion that muddles their thoughts. And as much as it hurts me, I know I have to draw the line.
"Until things change," I finally say, my voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill over, "I don't think–Fugg that. I know it's not a good idea for Nix to be around that kind of influence. I need to protect him, and so do you."
The air around us feels heavy, and I can see the shock and hurt on their faces. But this is about more than our feelings, it's about the safety and well-being of a young boy who only knows love. And I will fight tooth and nail to make sure that love always wins.
"What are you saying, Myles?" Cynthia says after a long pause, her voice wavering.
Cynthia and George exchange puzzled glances.
"We don’t understand," George says.
"Then let me be clear." My voice is firm. "I love you both as if you were my own parents, especially since mine are no longer here, but unless you do better, I won't be bringing Nix over here anymore." The words taste bitter on my tongue, but I know they need to be said.
I can see the hurt in their eyes, but it's not enough for me to change my mind. They need to understand that actions have consequences, and that loving someone means standing up against hate, even when it's difficult.
"Alright," Cynthia says quietly, her voice barely a whisper. "We understand."
And as I drove off in my car, I take a deep breath.
I’d made a painful decision. George and Cynthia love Nix, but I love him more.
I could never stand by and allow my son to be exposed to intolerance, even if it meant confronting the ones I loved most. And I promised myself I’ll always fight for love, no matter what the cost.