Gently I say, “I’m twenty-five, Mom. I’m an adult now. I’m having sex.”
“You don’t have to tellme about it,” she sighs. With one hand she touches the side of my face, her thumb tracing the curve of my jaw as she stares at me, throughme, trying to see someone I no longer am. “You don’t have to be so damn proud.”
Surprised, I laugh and cover her hand with mine, pressing her palm to my face. “What, would you rather I keep it to myself? Or deny who I am? Live in misery just because you don’t want to deal with it? Happens to everyone else’s sons, is that it? Not yours. Neveryours.” Before she can reply, I point out, “You raised me better than that.”