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Chapter 3

“Tonight at five thirty,” he growled.

“Okay. See you then.”

On my way to work, I’d driven by the house, paused in front of it, and taken a picture with my phone, then sent it to Mom in Davis.

Hey, Ma, what do you think?

Oh, honey, it’s you. All yours or sharing?

Renter if it’s not too expensive. Taking a look tonight.

Good luck. Call me afterward. Love you.

U2

Mom taught English composition at a community college and was just as organized as I was unorganized. When I was growing up, she’d been tough, never wasting the sporadic childcare payments that my virile, sports-mad dad sent. I never doubted her love. In fact, she’d made my coming out the most anticlimactic in the history of gay mankind.

I had to choose which permanent, grown-up job to take. She’d put in her time and deserved more from life than parenting the “perfect” child.

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