I was every inch your son in high school: the self-­flagellating perfectionist, top of my class, racking up course awards, always outdoing myself to prove my worth. The gay kid who found safety and belonging through tireless excellence. Who had become addicted to your validation. You had a biologically ingrained faith in my abilities. I was tested and confirmed gifted at the earliest possible juncture, and you spared the neighbours and book club ladies no detail of my accomplishments. Of course you always had a masochistic streak when it came to heaping expectations on yourself — the result of decades spent excelling so far beyond your male peers that those in charge would be forced to treat you just about as well as them. And this streak extended, by way of a myriad of little neuroses, to virtually every facet of your life. If a wineglass had a fingerprint on it, you’d wipe it clean with a damp paper towel before taking a sip, even when you were alone in the kitchen after work. You would agonize for days after forgetting a colleague’s wife’s name at a party. And you could never bear to throw out food, because to be wasteful was a character flaw, an admission you’d over-shopped, not to mention you’d hate to ever be caught unprepared without the requisite ingredient. This meant I found crackers in the pantry dating back to before I started high school, and various sedimentary layers of rotting fruit and vegetables in the fridge. Every couple of months I’d break down and purge.

“I can’t believe you dumped the whole crisper!”

“It was compost.”

“And without even asking me, I mean —”

“Mom —”

“— I was going to make a stew!”

“It was starting to produce heat.”

In grade eleven I left my biology midterm on the dining-room table by accident. That evening you knocked on my bedroom door and peeked in without waiting for a reply — which you persisted in doing throughout my adolescence, despite knowing the very real risk of finding me with my dick out. I was lying in bed reading a book and looked up. You wore a look of genuine concern.

“You doing okay?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“I saw your midterm on the table.”

“…”

“You’re not upset?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I got an 85 percent on it.”

You nodded and closed the door.