Becoming Brett

37. A Tri-fold Letter

When I get home from school my mom's sending a piano lesson out the door. I have a lesson in an hour leaving me enough time to eat a snack and stalk the University of Washington's website.

At least that's my plan until my mom calls my name bringing me back into the kitchen. She's wiping at the white counters, a gentle smile on her face when I step into view.

"How was school?"

I give her the standard answer. "It was good."

Her dark hair is pulled back, the old cardigan that she wears more often than not hangs from her shoulders. Sometimes I wonder if she's happy, if this is the life she always dreamed of or if she's longing for more. Something less stifling.

Maybe I'm projecting.

"And how's Wes?" She starts to pull things from the cabinets and fridge.

Raw chicken, potatoes, vegetables. Moving about the kitchen, exposing the messy interiors of the cupboards for short glimpses before concealing their secrets again.

"He's okay. His tics are getting bad again." I tell her.

And there I stand keeping all my messy secrets buried so deep there are no glimpses.

My mom sighs, her head shaking. "That poor boy."

I watch her select a knife, tearing through the plastic wrapping of the chicken. She slaps a peace of raw meat down on a cutting board with more confidence than she ever carries just in herself. And I realize how similar we are.

My mom and I are only confident in our routine. In the things we know are expected of us. My mom is meant to tend the house, cook the meals, raise the child.

And I'm meant to be the perfect son.

"I called Grace today but she must be working." She glances at me and I nod, confirming for her. "We should have them over soon, don't you think?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

I'm still standing in the kitchen, not having the guts to sit down at the counter and relax into a conversation with my mom and not being rude enough to dismiss the conversation all together.

It's all so polite. So guarded.

It's wrong.

James is right. I'm tired of hiding. Of feeling so much shame but yet, I can't bring myself to do anything about it. Other than pile on more lies.

How am I supposed to shatter this illusion I've worked so hard to create so that my parents have a son they can be proud of. How will we look if I do? Will we remain the same? Or will I have done just that, shatter us?

The unknown scares me.

Loss terrifies me.

"Oh." My mom says softly even though she wields the knife in her hand with more aggression and skill. "You have a piece of mail."

She points with the blade of the knife, the metal gleaming under the light, reflecting the pristine kitchen. I follow the point of the blade across the kitchen to the other side of the counter where an envelope sits alone.

"I do?" I ask the question even thought it's pointless.

My mom hums. "I didn't know you applied to the University of Washington."

Air catches in my throat, my fingers trembling as I pluck the white envelope from the counter. I know it's just a simple, minuscule envelope but suddenly it feels so heavy.

"Uh, yeah. I mumble, staring at the official lettering on the envelope. "Back up. Just incase."

"Back up?" She questions. "You've already received acceptance letters from two of your top three. And Yale will surely come any day."