Page 101 of The Prodigal Son

“Truett,” she says in a quiet, scolding tone.

I lift my head and stare at my father. “Wait, who wants to have their wedding at our church?”

“Just a new family in town,” my mother answers for him. “They have a son about Adam’s age, and they requested to have his wedding at our church.”

My dad huffs in disgust. “Over my dead body.”

“He’s gay?” I ask quietly.

“I don’t think this is an appropriate dinner table conversation,” my mom says, trying to change the subject. “Caleb, tell us about your new car.”

But no one takes the bait. Instead, Caleb and Adam are both watching me with caution. I can see by the look in their eyes that they’re praying I won’t cause a scene. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t explode. No matter how much you want to.

Dad glances up and stares into my eyes with a challenging expression. “Your mother’s right,” he says. “We don’t need to talk about it anymore.”

No one answers my question or approaches the subject again. Caleb eventually starts talking about the new car he justgot, and Adam takes a call up in Dad’s office. Dinner continues without incident, but I don’t listen to a word. In my head, I’m just having a silent argument with my dad. How could this be what God intended? How could a man who preaches love and acceptance of their neighbors be filled with such hate and bigotry?

The longer I sit and stew on it, the more worked up I get.

By the time my mom serves the dessert, I look around the table and realize I’m sitting with the four people who are supposed to have my back. They’re my family.

But they don’t. They want me to be different. To be quiet. To be so small, I disappear.

There’s a whole wide world of people out there who would love and accept me the way I am, but I’m forced to live between the same four walls as the people who would hurt me the most.

Maybe I should just disappear.

Maybe that way, they wouldn’t have to worry about the son who’s different. Or the gay wedding that would curse them all to hell. Or the mess I would make of their perfect little lives.

“You don’t like your cherry pie?” my mom asks, touching my arm.

My expression remains flat as I push the plate away. “No, I don’t.”

As I stand up and walk out of the dining room, I hear my father bellow, “Isaac Goode, you get back here right this instant.”

“Why should I?” I mutter under my breath.

“Because I told you to,” he shouts, but I ignore him. And it only makes him more angry.

“Isaac, what has gotten into you?” Mom asks as she stands from the table, looking at me with a hint of anger in her eyes. My mother is never angry with me, but I can see now that she is. Why? Because I’m disturbing the peace, and shehatesthat.

Well, I hate a lot of shit I put up with around here, and I’m sick of it.

“What has gotten intome?” I argue. “You’re all such hypocrites. You sit here and discuss another family and their gay son like it’s such a fucking curse.”

My dad stands up like a rocket. There is vitriol on his face, and I honestly have no idea how I’m related to him. How did I come from him? We are nothing alike.

“Go to your room,” he barks, but I don’t move.

“I’ll go to my room,” I reply in defeat. “Because you don’t want to see me, right? You’re disgusted by me, aren’t you?”

“Stop it,” he snaps.

“No, I’m done hiding and making myself smaller and quiet for you.”

“Isaac,” my mother pleads. “Stop it, baby.”

“I don’t want to stop it anymore,” I reply, pulling at my hair in frustration. “None of you here really care about me. Notreally.”

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