Page 575 of End Game

Dad follows.

There are no hugs.

I notice that before anything else.

Mom always hugs me goodbye.

Even if I'm only leaving after stopping by to fix something.

Even if I'm coming back tomorrow.

Her hands stay clasped in front of her stomach.

The cross hangs six inches from my shoulder.

The one Dad and I made together before I knew he was going to become Dad.

He reaches for the door but stops.

His eyes are red.

“Micah.”

I look at him.

His mouth works once before the words come. “You're always my son.”

Fuck.

That almost does it.

Almost makes me cross the space between us.

Because my first father left.

Because this one didn't.

Because Matthew chose that word long before I understood how much it mattered to hear it.

My throat tightens. “Dad—”

“But we can't pretend this is okay,” Mom says.

The words cut between us.

I look at her.

Her face collapses again, but she keeps going.

“When you're ready to leave this lifestyle behind and come back to God, you can come home.”

There it is.

Not anger.

Not hate.

Not even rejection, in her mind.