So, what? You want me to move out too? I ask my father.

He looks at me, and more calmly than I’ve ever heard him, in a voice completely devoid of emotion, says, Yes, Michael, I think that might be for the best.

At first I assume Dad will just pretend Connor isn’t here. That his older son isn’t standing at the door for the first time in years, ready to help his younger son move out.

Wishful thinking at its best.

Instead, before he walks out and slams the door so hard, the pictures slant on the wall, it’s: This is your fault, Connor. I knew you were going to drag Michael down into the gutter with you.

The stuff I care about fills a couple of boxes.

• Some clothes, tapes, and books.

• A few photographs.

• The star off my ceiling.

• The beads from Pride.

• My guitar.

That’s it.

My mother has gone to church or a friend’s or a bar. I have no idea where my father went.

Connor stops at the door to my room. His expression is complicated when he looks around and says, You’re sure, right? I’m not telling you that you shouldn’t be, just…

As his voice trails off, I glance around the room. At the stuff I’m leaving behind. At the ceiling I’ve stared at all my life. At the bed where Gabriel and I came so close to having sex.

Then I look back at my brother and see him in a way I never have. At the courage he must have needed to stand tall on that stage and write his own future.

I’m sure, I say, picking up my boxes. I’m sure.

Instead of having dinner with just Connor on Wednesdays, we both meet up with Mom.

Every week, she brings a bag with a little more of my stuff, and I finally feel moved into Maurice and Connor’s apartment.

Every week, she grills me about school and asks about Becky and whether I’ve heard from James. She asks Connor about work and, as an afterthought because my brother keeps bringing him up, about Maurice, and we talk about everything except for my father, because really, what is there to say?

She never apologizes.

Only once do I manage to get her alone and ask why she stays with him.

She hugs me and says, Life looks different from my age than it looks from sixteen, Michael. I’ve made my bed.

No one expects you to stay in a bed once you’ve found a scorpion in it, I think, but realize there’s no point in saying it out loud.

One of Mom’s bags is filled with last year’s school papers. On top is my list of goals from Mr. Solomon’s class.

• Fall in love

• Figure out who the hell I am

• Have sex without catching something

• Repair my family

• Escape

I guess I could have done worse than four out of five.