14. Sean
FOURTEEN
SEAN
The kitchen is quieter than the rest of the house. Well, not completely quiet, because the dishwasher’s cycling through a load. On the counter, my mom’s favorite little clock ticks, and the smell of ham and brown bread still hangs in the air from dinner.
My father walks around me, still silent, and heads straight to the coffee pot. He takes down two mugs from the cabinet, pours, then slides one toward me.
“Thought you could use something warm,” he says.
“Thanks.” I mumble and pick up the cup.
Neither of us says anything for a while. I’ve faced ninety-eight mile-an-hour fastballs with less anxiety than whatever this is.
Dad stares into his mug.
“Look, Sean… when you sent that text…” he begins. “I realized I’d already decided who you were bringing home before you ever got the chance to tell me.”
I nod slowly. “I wasn’t trying to blindside anyone, but when you said “her,” everything inside me felt wrong. That was the easiest way to let it out.”
“I can understand that.” He scratches at his beard, looking for words. “I just…” He sighs. “Well, I suppose I just spent years picturing your life one way.”
His eyes finally meet mine.
“And now I’m trying to catch up.” He chuckles nervously, “You kids don’t make that easy. Always throwing curveballs at us.”
My throat tightens. “I’ve been trying to catch up too.”
He looks confused. “How do you mean?”
I stare into my coffee for a second.
“I’ve known something was different about me for a long time.” I laugh quietly. “I just got really good at ignoring it.”
He waits for me to keep going. My father’s always been the type of man to hear someone out completely before adding his two cents, so his silence doesn’t make me think he’s judging me.
After a moment I sigh and shrug.
“So…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Have you always liked women… and men?”
There it is.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
Just a father trying to understand his son.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m bisexual.”
The words settle between us, and he doesn’t look disgusted. There’s no look of disappointment, so I keep going.
“I’ve always been bisexual,” I continue. “Meeting Emiliano didn’t make me this way. He just… made it impossible to keep pretending I wasn’t.”
Dad’s shoulders sink a little. “I wondered if maybe…” He shakes his head. “If maybe this was because of him.”
“No.” I meet his eyes. “This is because of me.”
“And him?”
A smile sneaks onto my face before I can stop it. “I love him, Dad.”
It feels different saying it here. Not because I love Emiliano any less, but because I’ve never said those words in this house about another man.
Dad watches me for a long moment.
“I could tell.” He says.
“You could?”
“Yes, from the moment the door opened.” He nods toward the living room. “And the way he looks at you… it’s undeniable.”
I blink, then laugh softly. “We were going for subtle. I guess that really didn’t work out the way we thought.”
“No,” Dad smiles to himself. “It didn’t. But if it means anything, I don’t want you to feel like you need to hide.”
A lump forms in my throat.
“Yeah.”
“He’s good to you?” He asks, looking me over with a stern glare.
I roll my eyes and smile. “He is.”
Dad nods once, slowly. “He seems like a good man.”
And I don’t know why those simple words hit me harder than I expected. I know I don’t necessarily need permission to be with Mili. I’m a grown man. But somewhere deep down… I wanted my dad to see what I saw in him and approve.
“I think he’s the best man I’ve ever known,” I say, feeling my chin wobble a bit.
Dad smiles sadly. “I was scared you thought you’d lose us.”
“I did.”
He looks down into his mug. “Sean…” His voice is rough now. “…I don’t understand everything.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “I know that.”
“And I’ll probably ask questions that make me sound like an idiot.”
A laugh escapes me. “Okay. You and Mom and everyone have the right to take time to get used to this.”
“But you’re my son.”
Simple and matter-of-fact. Like there was never going to be another answer.
“You don’t stop being my son because you fell in love with a man.”
Shit. I’m gonna cry.
My vision blurs. “I love you, Dad.”
He steps forward then, awkward as ever, wrapping me in one of those brief, shoulder-clapping hugs that Irish fathers seem born knowing how to give.
“I love you too.” We stay like that for a second. Then he pulls back, clearing his throat. “So…”
I sniff once.
“So?”
A grin finally breaks through. “Does this mean your mother’s going to invite Emiliano to every bloody holiday until the end of time?”
I laugh, wiping at my eyes. “Probably.”
Dad groans dramatically. “Poor bastard. You know we’re gonna have to prep him.”
“He’ll survive.”
“He’d better.”
He bumps my shoulder as he walks toward the doorway. “Come on.”
“So… we’re really okay?”
He glances toward the living room, where I can hear Emiliano laughing with my brothers.
“Your boyfriend’s waiting, son.” He smirks.
Something in my chest settles, and I know that everything isn’t going to be easy suddenly. But hearing my dad say “boyfriend” like it belongs in our house tells me everything I need to know.
I follow him back into the noise, and for the first time in my life, it doesn’t feel like I’m walking back into my family’s home.
It feels like I’m bringing mine with me.
Easter morning feels like an old song I forgot I knew the words to.
The house is already awake when I open my eyes.
I can hear it through the walls: quiet footsteps, low voices, the clink of dishes, the soft chaos of my family moving around each other in a rhythm that existed long before I ever knew what anxiety was.
For a second, I just lie there in the guest room and stare at the ceiling. My chest rises and falls.
I’m still here.
I didn’t run.
Beside me, Emiliano is stretched out on the bed like he belongs in it, one arm thrown above his head, hair a mess, face relaxed in sleep. Seeing him here, in my childhood house, under my family’s roof, is so surreal it makes me feel like my chest doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Last night plays in my head in pieces. My dad’s voice. Emiliano’s name in my mouth. The word ‘boyfriend’ is settling into the walls of this house like it belongs there all along.
I roll onto my side and watch Emiliano sleep, and then I do something I never do.
I let myself have a soft moment, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, quiet and careful, and the contact makes my chest feel too full. Emiliano shifts, eyelids fluttering. He catches my wrist gently before I can pull away.
“Buenos días,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper.
His eyes open, dark and warm, and he smiles the way he does when he’s proud of me, and it pisses me off because it makes me want to cry.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Emiliano hums like he doesn’t fully believe me, but he doesn’t push. He just tugs me closer until my forehead rests against his.
“Today’s just a day,” he whispers. “We do it one moment at a time.”
I nod, breathing him in. “Yep, just another day of people ready to judge us.”
His mouth brushes mine, barely a kiss, more like a promise. Then a knock hits the door.
“Seán?” my mom calls, sweetly. “You boys awake?”
My cheeks go hot instantly, and Emiliano’s mouth twitches. “Boys.”
“Shut up,” I hiss.
He grins and slides out of bed like he’s done this a thousand times, grabbing a clean shirt from his bag and pulling it on like a normal person who is not about to go to Easter Mass with my family after sleeping under my parents’ roof.
I open the door, and my mom stands there with a soft smile and tired eyes, hair pinned back like she’s been doing this all morning.
“Good morning,” she says, then her gaze flicks past me to Emiliano. She pauses.
Then she smiles wider.
“Emiliano,” she says warmly. “Good morning, dear.”
Dear.
That one word hits me in the ribs.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Emiliano replies, polite and calm.
My mom nods once like she approves of his tone, then she looks back at me.
“You hungry?” she asks.
I stare at her and smile because this is my mom’s love language too. Just like Emiliano’s mother.
Feed, fix, and nurture.
“Yeah,” I manage.
She pats my cheek quickly. “Good. Come down when you’re ready. Your father’s already dressed.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
She steps away, leaving the hallway quiet again.
I close the door and lean back against it for a second like I need the wood to hold me up. Emiliano steps close, hands sliding to my waist and tugging me toward him.
“Breathe, Cobre,” he murmurs.
I glare. “Don’t call me that here.”
He smirks. “Why? Afraid your mom’s gonna adopt me?”
“She already did,” I mutter.
Emiliano’s smile softens. “Get used to it, baby. Your family loves me.”
Downstairs, the kitchen smells like coffee and cinnamon and something baked. There’s a basket of hot cross buns on the table, and my sisters are already dressed, hair curled and makeup done like they’re going to a wedding. Leeann looks up when I walk in and immediately narrows her eyes at me.
“Well,” she says. “Look who survived the night.”
“Leeann,” I warn.
She grins. “What? I’m proud of you.”
Mary steps forward and hugs me tight, her embrace warm and exactly what I need.
“I’m happy you’re here,” she whispers.
My throat goes tight. “Me too.”
Ciara leans against the counter, arms crossed, pretending she’s not emotional. Her eyes flick to Emiliano, and she gives him a sharp little nod.
“Morning,” she says. “Soon to be brother-in-law."
“Ciara,” I hiss.
“Morning, sis,” Emiliano replies, without missing a beat, grabbing a bun from the dish.
Ciara’s gaze lingers on him a moment, and then she turns to me.
“I like him. Don’t screw this up.”
Jesus.
“I’ll try not to,” I smirk.
My brothers drift in one by one. David is in a button-up that looks like it’s trying to strangle him. He takes one look at Emiliano and grins like Christmas came early.
“So now we’ve got two baseball players in the family,” he says.
Sam elbows him hard.
“What?” David says, offended. “I’m being friendly.”