Page 138 of The Prodigal Son

I hold a hand up. “Mom, please just listen. Don’t talk for a moment. I just want you to hear me.”

She swallows and presses her lips together with indignation.

“When I was fifteen, I was signed up for a conversion program without anyone fully explaining to me what I was attending and with no consent from me, and I have spent my entire adult life feeling very resentful of that.”

“I—”

I hold up my hand to stop her again.

“I felt betrayed, Mom.”

She starts to cry, letting out a whimpering sob as she covers her eyes with her clenched hands. She can choose not to hear what I have to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. Ineedto say it.

“That program waswrong. Evil, even. It caused serious damage to my self-worth, my mental health, my faith, my confidence. My future. I was sexually and mentallyabusedthere. I need you to hear that part. But I am working through all of that now. I’m healing from the harm they caused, and I am going to be okay.”

She sobs again.

“I knew it. I knew you were going to tell me this was my fault.”

My eyes sting. “I didn’t say that, Mom.”

“Yes, you did. You don’t understand, Jensen. I was just trying to protect you.”

I swallow and look down at my hands on the table. Kyle warned me it could be like this, that she would think only of herself, although I never once directed it at her. That’s her guilt talking. Not mine.

“I want you in my life, Mom,” I mumble without looking up.

She gives a little gasp. “Of course, I’ll be in your life, Jensen. I’m yourmother.”

This is the hard part. The part that feels like a dull knife jabbed in my chest.

“I can’t have you in my life unless I know I have your support.”

She tsks, straightening her spine. “I’m doing my best.”

I look up at her as I continue. “I’m in love with Isaac. Eventually, I want to marry him. I would like your support.”

“What about your job?” she asks, and my shoulders fall in defeat. Hanging my head, I dig my fingers in my hair.

“I don’t care about my job, Mom. You’re not listening to me.”

“I am listening to you, Jensen. I’m listening to you tell me you are struggling. That your whole life has been a struggle and you want to just make it worse and worse. I’ll support you. Of course I’ll support you, but I can’t change who I am, either. You and your father seem to think this should be so easy for me, but neither of you understands how hard this is for me.”

The dull knife digs deeper and deeper as she continues.

“I can’t just change my beliefs overnight, Jensen. I was raised to believe that it’s a sin and excuse me for not wanting my son to go to hell. So, yes, I did try to help you. I didn’t want to change you, Jensen. I wanted tocureyou. There is a difference.”

“I don’t need a cure, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

She huffs. “I can’t change my beliefs, Jensen. I won’t.”

I open my mouth to argue, but there’s no use. This conversation is going in circles, and I assume it always will unless I remove myself. There’s nothing in my power to change her response or beliefs. All I can do is walk away. And it hurts, probably more than anything has ever hurt before, but I have to do this.

“Okay, Mom,” I stammer quietly as I move to stand.

“Where are you going?” she cries.

“I’m saying goodbye,” I reply.

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