“Connor—”

“You’ll believe anything, won’t you?”

Mom’s smile freezes and then dies. Victory. An evil warmth fills my lungs as I savor finally landing a hit. Unfortunately, as usual, guilt follows. Dad put Mom through the wringer for years—lying, raging, drinking, disappearing—and I just squeezed lemon juice into her most painful wound. I don’t relax my scowl, though. If she stays vulnerable, there’s a decent chance she’ll give up and return my phone.

“This is too much fighting,” Mom says, swallowing another bite off her trembling fork. “I’m trying to be civil with your dad. Can’t you just…be my buddy on this?”

A fire grows in my belly. More guilt. She does this: she makes herself pathetic, and I end up feeling like a bastard for asking for any kind of decency or dignity. In the end, the guilt is too overpowering and I’m forced to nod. “I’m your buddy, Mom.” She laces her fingers under her chin and, on the crest of an enormous sigh, weeps into her meal. Guilt consumes my entire being like an inferno. “Come on, don’t cry…”

“It’s so hard raising a boy on your own,” she squeaks, dabbing a napkin under her eyes.

“Momma, not this again,” I groan, my guilt evaporating from a renewed rage.

“You don’t know what you’re putting Vicky through, not making it right—”

“I’m not the dad!”

“Then who is? It’s a miracle birth?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my business—”

“You were her boyfriend for a year. Suddenly, she’s got a baby and you tell me you like…men…”

“You think I made up a boyfriend so I could duck out on her—?”

“Did you?”

“Gimme my phone and I’ll show you pictures; my boyfriend’s real.”

“Your dad didn’t want the responsibility of a child either. Not that I blame either of you. It’s a hard, hard thing, being a parent. You’re constantly over a barrel—”

“Mom, STOP. You’re like a broken record!” I growl under my breath and poke at the coagulated remains of ice cream in my bowl. Nothing will ever convince her because she doesn’t want to be convinced. I could put that baby through a paternity test and wag the results under her nose, and she’d think I faked them in Photoshop. This baby thing of hers is just a fancy coat she’s wearing over her total discomfort with who I am. It’s not even the same situation as Dad; Dad didn’t deny I was his. He stuck around eleven years, then blew off to England to be with his ex-girlfriend. He sucks, but to my mom, me coming out is just as unforgivable.

These last few weeks have been torture for both of us. I miss Normal Mom.

“All this fighting’s no good,” she says, mopping her wet cheeks with a third napkin.

“We’re buddies, okay?” I close my hand over hers, anything to quiet this storm. She shuts her eyes and smiles.

Now’s the time, Connor.

A lump rises in my throat as I ask, “Can we just get past this? Can’t I get my phone back, and then the fighting’ll be over?”