Page 100 of The Prodigal Son

“I just wanted to say…I’m proud of you.”

Sitting up in my bed, I drag my fingers through my hair as I let this moment set in. He’sproudof me? The man who once waved a Bible in my face and told me I was going to hell. The man who used to smack us around when we didn’t fall in line. The man who looked at me like I had killed his pride and joy the moment I told him I was gay.

I hate myself for the way it feels to hear him say that. To know I did what I had set out to do, to make him proud. From the first time I strummed a chord on my guitar, I have been doing nothing but trying to make him proud.

Even after everything.

I hate myself for how much I still want it.

“You’reproudof me?” I ask with the threat of tears in my voice.

“I know I haven’t been the best father, and I’ll probably never get a chance to say it to your face, but I stayed up all night trying to get your number just to tell you that.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?”

He lets out a sigh, and he sounds so old as if he’s withering away.

“Isaac, listen to me,” he says, and it takes everything in me not to hang up right then. “Go home.”

“What?”

“Go see your mother. She misses you more than you’ll ever know.”

“It’s your fault I left,” I bite back with tears in my eyes.

“I know, and I can’t fix what I’ve done. But now that I’m gone, you should go home. Be with your family. And I won’t bother you anymore.”

I blink, and a tear slips over my cheek. Is he serious right now? Is this bullshit supposed to make me forgive him? He’s trying to act like the hero—like he can make everything right?

I want to tell him to fuck off. Ishouldtell him to fuck off.

But I don’t. Maybe because it would feel like kicking an old man already on the ground. He’s lost everything, so what would be the point? Even if he deserves to be told to fuck off.

When I say nothing for a while, he lets out another sigh, this one sounding more like relief.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. That I’m so proud of you. And that I think it’s time for you to go home. I love you, son.”

In a panic, I hit the red end call button. Dropping my phone on the bed, I stare at it in shock. Tears stream down my face as I try to make sense of what the fuck just happened.

Eleven years ago

Isaac

My mother dishes me a piece of lasagna with a spatula and a smile. Dad is at the end of the table, droning on and on about some drama at the church, while Adam nods obediently at his side.

Caleb is sitting across from me. I make eye contact with him briefly, each of us doing a subtle eye roll in response to Dad’s incessant complaining. Caleb got married last year and moved into his new place with his new wife, Briar. She’s at Bible study with her mom and sister tonight, which means he could come home for family dinner like he never left.

I love nights like these. When two of my three brothers are back home. I hate being the only son left. It makes me the constant target. Mom smothers me with attention, which is nice sometimes. But for an almost eighteen-year-old, it would be nice to have someone around I could actually confide in.

And Dad just keeps pushing me to be more like Adam. Come to church. Go to college. Get a girlfriend.

I am like a bomb about to explode. The spark is nearing the end of the wick, and I’m not sure how much longer I have until I lose it.

“What the hell has this world come to?” my dad complains and I glance his way with a nudge of anxiety under my skin. “What happened to good old American family values?”

“I think we should give the Millers some grace,” my mother says sweetly, looking at me with a wink. “Wouldn’t we all want the same?”

“Grace?” my dad bellows. “They don’t need grace, Melanie. What they need is a good study of the scripture. They want to have their queer son’s wedding at our church and damn us all to hell.”

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