Chapter 2

The light from the chandelier above the dining table cast a warm yellow glow, but in my eyes, that light felt like an interrogation lamp. Porcelain plates were arranged with painful precision on the polished teak table. Diego Watson, a man with broad shoulders—the remnants of his glory days as a competitive weightlifter—cut his steak with steady, rhythmic movements.

Every clink of the knife against the porcelain sounded like a ticking clock counting down the remaining time of my freedom. His hair was slicked back, with hardly a single strand out of place. Beside him, Lee Xiayu Watson poured water with graceful movements, her calm smile occasionally softening her husband’s sternness.

"A friend of mine from work said your college's Dean of Graduate Studies called your undergraduate research extraordinary, Jose," Dad’s voice boomed, cutting through the silence of the dining room. "Our family name will be even more respected after you graduate. You are this family’s best investment."

I nodded, offering a slight smile—a mask I had worn for so long it felt fused to the skin of my face. My hand holding the spoon felt stiff, the muscles in my arms tensing up, not out of enthusiasm, but from a suffocating sensation creeping from my chest up to my throat.

Buzz. Buzz.

The phone on the table vibrated, its screen lighting up brightly, cutting off Dad's train of thought. A text notification popped up. Before I could grab the phone, Dad’s sharp eyes caught the text displayed there. The clink of Dad's spoon hitting his plate made a loud, deafening sound.

The room suddenly went silent, as if the oxygen had just been sucked out. Dad set his napkin down with a slow, intimidating movement, then reached for my phone. He turned the screen toward himself, reading every word in a very quiet voice—a terrifying contrast to his jaw, which had now hardened like stone.

"I'm already home, honey. Thank you for today. I'm lucky to have you. Get some rest, honey. I love you."

Dad’s breathing grew heavy. He stared at me, his gaze no longer that of a father, but that of a prosecutor. "Who is Kent?" his voice was low, laced with an undeniable threat. "Why does this disgusting man dare to send a message like that?"

The coldness that had been creeping in now gripped my chest until my breath felt thin and trapped. My sister, Mei, froze with her fork still hanging in her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Mom stared at me, the gentle look in her eyes now turning into obvious panic, her hands beneath the table shaking violently.

"It’s... just a joke, Dad," I said, forcing my voice not to crack. Dad slammed his hand on the table, causing the water glass to jump and spill its contents onto the pristine white tablecloth. "Don't lie to me!" he roared. The veins in his neck bulged, his face turning bright red. "I know the difference between a joke and feelings. What kind of relationship is this, Jose Watson?! Do you think I'm stupid?!"

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. The burden I had been carrying for so long felt suffocating, crushing my lungs until I felt like I was dying. When I opened them again, I decided to let it drop. There was no longer any use in hiding the truth from the monster who had raised me. I looked straight into Dad’s eyes without blinking.

"It’s not a joke, Dad," I said in a voice that sounded strangely calm, flat, and deadly. "Kent is my boyfriend. I'm gay."

That word seemed to stop time from turning in the room. Mom gasped, the spoon in her hand dropping to the floor with a loud clatter, breaking the heavy tension. She stood up, her hand reaching out as if wanting to grab me, wanting to pull me back into the embrace of falsehood. However, Dad gripped Mom's arm roughly, throwing her back until her chair shifted.

"Be quiet!" Dad snapped at Mom. He stood up, his massive frame seemingly blocking out the light from the chandelier, casting a dark shadow that pinned me to my chair. "Do you realize what you're saying?" Dad whispered those words right in front of my face, his hot breath hitting my skin. "I raised you to be a leader. To be the pride of this family. Not to be diseased garbage like this."

"This isn't a disease, Dad!" I yelled, tears finally forcing their way out, flowing hot down my cheeks. "I'm still the Jose you know. My orientation doesn't change who I am to this family!"

SLAP!

The slap landed squarely on my cheek. My head and body were thrown to the side until the chair I was sitting on almost toppled over. The corner of my mouth felt wet and metallic—blood began to flow. I touched my burning, throbbing cheek, but that pain was nothing compared to the shattering of something inside my chest when I saw Dad’s gaze. He no longer saw his child; he saw a stain he wanted to erase from his life story.

"You are not my son," Dad said, his voice as cold as ice. "Choose right now: break off that relationship, go to therapy, or pack your things and leave this house, and erase this family name from your life forever."

I looked at Mom. She was holding both of my siblings tightly, her shoulders shaking with sobs, but she didn't dare to look at me. She chose to remain silent, letting me be cast out to preserve the integrity of a fractured family. This grand dining room suddenly felt like a suffocating prison. An overwhelming exhaustion washed over my entire body. I had been pretending for far too long, and today, the falsehood met its end.

"I choose to leave," I whispered.

Dad’s roar of anger echoed. He rushed upstairs. The sound of a door being kicked open and the thud of things being thrown around could be heard from my room. Not long after, he returned, dragging my suitcase roughly across the floor, then hurlled it toward the front door so hard that its wheels broke.

He grabbed me by the collar, dragging me out of the dining room, through the hallway, and out to the front yard. "Don't ever come back!" Dad screamed while slamming the teak wood door shut, locking it right in my face.

The sound of the key turning twice sounded final, a death sentence for my relationship with my parents. I stood there on the concrete driveway that felt hard beneath my feet. The door was shut tight. The life I had planned, the expectations, and the sense of security that had been my protective wall all this time collapsed into pieces on the ground.

I no longer had a place to call home. I took a deep breath, wiping away the remaining tears still flowing down my face, then gripped the handle of my broken suitcase. I turned around, stepping away from the house that now felt foreign. At the end of the street, the darkness of the night awaited, but in my head, there was only one name giving me the courage to keep moving forward: Kent Morris.

I didn't know where I would sleep tonight, but for the first time in twenty years, I no longer felt suffocated. I was free, even if I had to pay the highest price: my own home.