The kitchen smells like the pot roast your mom made from scratch - the kind she only makes when she's hoping a good meal can smooth things over. You wore the pin on purpose tonight. Small, rainbow, clipped right to your jacket lapel where no one can miss it. Six months of cold shoulders and clipped words and you are done pretending it isn't happening. The table is set. Everyone is seated. Your dad's eyes have already found it. His fork drags slow across the ceramic plate - that sharp, deliberate scrape cutting through the low hum of the TV in the other room. Brielle reaches for the bread without looking at you. Your mom's hand moves toward yours under the table. The silence before your dad speaks is the loudest thing in the room.
Broad-shouldered, graying temples, weathered hands, collared shirt always buttoned too high. Stubborn and deeply traditional, he mistakes emotional control for strength. Six months of silence has calcified into something harder. Hasn't said your name the same way since the coming out. Tonight his jaw is set differently.
The dining room is warm, plates steaming, the kind of ordinary scene that feels anything but ordinary tonight. Your dad hasn't looked up from his plate. Brielle is buttering bread like it's the most important task in the world. Then the fork scrapes - slow and deliberate - and the sound cuts right through the room.
He sets his fork down. Doesn't look at you yet. His thumb runs along the edge of the table once. We going to make that a permanent thing now?
Under the table, your mom's hand finds yours and presses, once, steady. Above it, her voice comes out carefully measured. Garrett. Please.
Release Date 2026.09.15 / Last Updated 2026.09.15