My mother was thrilled—beside herself, really—when I pitched the idea of her joining us on the cruise. My thinking was that it would give us all an opportunity to get together on neutral territory in what’s certain to be a positive environment focused mostly on the kids. When I first came out to her, her biggest fear was that I’d become a leather wearing, muscle-bound side show, sleeping around and catching diseases. I told her that I didn’t think being gay was about that—and it never was. She shook her head, and she bemoaned the idea that I’d never have a family of my own with kids.

We haven’t seen one another many times since then. I kept my distance out of fear of more rejection and good old-fashioned resentment. She had a miserable marriage. My father was an abusive, domineering jerk who made our lives a nightmare. They fought constantly; he got physical with her and with me too when I got big enough to defend her. The idea that she’d judge me pissed me off.

The passing of time and, let’s face it, the positive turn my life has taken with the addition of Dillon and the kids into my world, has eased my resentment and given me space to forgive. The fact that she kicked her boy toy to the curb when she realized he was just there to stroke her ego and lighten the balance in her bank account gave me hope that maybe she’s gotten some wisdom in the decade since I left, and my father died.

What I didn’t expect when I invited mother, is that her inner Grandma would emerge. My father, for all his faults, left her well-fixed financially. She insisted on contributing to our already great vacation package by upgrading us to the best state room available on the ship and adding a second, adjoining room for herself and the kids, which almost doubles the space we’ll have for the six days we’re on board.

She’s picking up the tab for a luxury, fully upgraded cruise that promises to give the kids a real taste of how the other half lives. For what it’s worth, Dillon and I are looking forward to being spoiled rotten too. But first, we have to get there.

It’s amazing how much stuff is required when traveling with kids. I’m used to packing a backpack and that being all I need for a week or more on the road. Traveling with kids is another whole ball of wax. It’s all well and good until we get to the airport in Roanoke and the lady at the check-in counter starts throwing shade at Dillon and me trying to wrangle five bags, three kids, a bunch of carry-ons, and paperwork for all of us.

Just to be extra cautious, we got passports for all three kids. Dillon lays everything down for check-in, but when the lady starts going through the documents she stops cold.

“Sir, whose children are these? They don’t share your last name.”

Dillon glares at her. “My sister’s,” he says. “I’m their legal guardian.”

“Do you have proof of that?” she asks.

Dillon and I talked about this, even discussing it with Melody and other family members. Everyone assured us it wouldn’t be a problem. I suggested Dillon put the court papers in his carry-on, just in case anyone questioned why we were two gay men traveling with kids who were not our own. Dillon scoffed, telling me I was paranoid.

“In fact, he does.” I say, unzipping the back of my messenger bag, pulling a manila envelope from within. I cut my eyes at Dillon, who’s looking at me like he just lost a bet.

The woman takes the envelope, retrieving the signed, stamped, and notarized papers. It’s clear by her confounded expression she has no clue what she’s looking at.

“Step aside while I call my manager,” she responds curtly, pushing our tickets and documents back toward Dillon.

We wait almost fifteen minutes for her manager to appear, then another ten for his manager to show and approve us for check-in. Dillon’s fuming and the kids are bouncing off the walls by the time we get our boarding passes and our bags checked. We don’t get an apology or even so much as a ‘thank you for your patience’ before we scurry off toward security, scrambling so we won’t miss our flight.

Jordan, Chrissy, and Joey have never flown. They’ve never been outside of Washington County so far as we know, so it’s no surprise they’re all three wonder-struck at the sight of jet aircraft, the lofting, industrial style design of the small airport, and the fascinating art installations decorating the lobby and corridors. Jordan peers up into the girded steel rafters, his jaw slack. He’s distracted by the sound of a whining jet engine, ramping up for departure from the gate.

“Just wait ‘til we get to Orlando, kids,” I say, pulling Chrissy along with one hand and Joey along with the other hoping to hustle them both toward our gate as fast as Joey’s short legs will allow. “The airport there makes this place look downright provincial.”

Jordan’s brow furrows and he scrambles to catch up. “What’s provincial mean?”

“Backwoods,” Dillon replies, still stinging from our treatment at check-in. “Edge of the universe.”

It’s clear Jordan doesn’t understand, but he will soon enough.

The flight is overbooked. No surprise there. There is one perk to traveling with kids, and it’s that we get to board first. Our seats aren’t all together, but they’re close. Chrissy is two rows ahead of me, seated beside Dillon. Joey’s beside me, and Jordan is across the aisle by the window. He’s fine by himself, his eyes glued out the window, taking everything in with fascination.

When the plane kicks off, Joey slips his hand inside mine, peeking up at me with wide eyes.

“It’s okay,” I say, circling my fingers snugly around his. “It’ll be fun, like a ride at the fair. We go up, then down, and in the middle, we might bounce around a little bit. We’ll just float on air, up high with the clouds.”

Our flight is short, sweet, and uneventful. By the time we arrive in Orlando, the kids consider themselves air-travel veterans. Jordan, especially, is effusive with his praise.

“That was so cool!” He beams after we’ve touched down, taxiing to the arrival gate. “You can see everything! The trees and the buildings and the cars. And the city is huge. It goes on forever. Roanoke was just a few roads and a bunch of trees, but this place is—”

He stops mid-sentence, peering out the window. “Wow!”

“What is it?” I ask, craning forward, peering across the aisle to see if I can see what’s captivated him.

The man seated beside him smiles, shaking his head.

“The biggest airplane I’ve ever seen in my life,” Jordan replies, watching it go by.

“That’s a Virgin Atlantic, 747 Jumbo Jet,” the man says to Jordan. “It’s probably going all the way to England.”

“I wanna fly that one day,” Jordan opines, turning to face the seat in front of him. His expression is beyond bright, all smiles and shiny eyes. “I wanna learn how to fly.”

“Keep making straight-A’s in all your math classes,” I suggest. “To be a pilot, you’ll need all that and more. You can join the Air Force after college and become a pilot if you’re willing to work really hard.”

I see Jordan’s wheels turning, ideas spinning around in his curious head. The kid has a lot more going on inside him than he ever lets on. It’s good to feed his curiosity with something positive, something that gives him a vision of a bright future instead of the consuming negativity he came to us with.

Dillon and I manage to successfully herd the kids through the airport towards baggage claim without losing anyone. As promised, the airport at Orlando reveals a whole new universe of wonders to the kids. Keeping them focused amid all the confusing new sights, sounds, scenes, and thousands of exotic people from all over the world, takes some cooperation and choreography, but Dillon and I manage it superbly.

“Everybody stop,” I say as soon as we’ve found our baggage carousel. “Pay attention.”

Dillon and all three kids halt in their tracks, looking at me like I’m about to get someone in trouble.

I point at the carousel number above our heads. “You see that?” I ask. “Commit that number, 14-A, to memory. Do not, I repeat, do not wander off. Jordan, you keep your eyes on your brother and sister, and Dillon, you keep your eyes on all three. I need to go find my mother. She’s probably floating around nearby somewhere, and I want to let her know we’re here.”

I head outside, feeling the surprising balm of humid, diesel infused, Florida air. It’s easy to forget what a real city smells like and how the noxious air can coat your lungs when you’ve lived in the pristine environment of southwestern Virginia for so long.

I lift my phone, dialing my mother’s number.

“Are you here?” she answers, her tone excited.

“We’re here,” I say. “Delta baggage claim. Where are you?”

“Coming around now. I’ll park just outside… oh! I see you. Oh! You’re so handsome. You look so good!”

Mom pulls up in a big Range Rover, parking on the curb not far from the sliding glass doors in a space reserved for taxi-cabs and busses.

“You can’t park here,” I say, coming around to her open window, reaching in to give her a hug.

“Watch me,” she says with typical disdain for any rule she didn’t come up with herself. “I’m not going anywhere until I have you and Dillon and the kids inside. They can write me a ticket if they don’t like it.”

Because the kids are already excited and inclined to approve of everything they see or hear, introductions go smoothly. Even Jordan is all smiles when my mother takes his hand, observing just how handsome he is. She’s equally easy with Chrissy and Joey, neither of whom show any inclination to distrust her, despite their negative experience with grandparents. Maybe this is because my mom looks more like an older sister and less like a grandmother. It may be the bright, flowing colors she wears and the warm approving smiles she gives them. Whatever it is, it works.

It works on Dillon too, despite every piece of history with my parents. I guess that conversation with my mom won’t ever go away. But she gives me several looks and long hugs that make me know that she’s changed. She wants us in her life, and maybe that’s more powerful than our history.

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a GQ model with you,” she says. A wicked smile turns her lipstick reddened lip.

Dillon grins, flexing for her before he holds his hand out to shake. “Nice to meet you ma’am,” he says, turning on his brightest smile and his boy-next-door charm.

“Ma’am?” my mother asks. “I think not. You’ll call me Millie and you’ll give me a hug. I don’t shake hands with family!”

We’re off to an excellent start. Way better than I expected.

* * *

“There it is, kids,” Dillon says, pointing toward a towering, gleaming, monstrously oversized vessel docked in the water ahead of us.

“Oh. My. God,” Chrissy observes, her eyes as big as saucers.

“That’s huge,” Jordan says, sitting forward with his hands around my headrest. “How does it not tip over?”

That’s a good question. I’ve been on the Navy’s largest battleships, and they’re nothing compared to the scale of this cruise ship.

“There’s almost as much ship below the waterline as above it,” our driver informs us. “And the portion below carries most of the weight; the engines, ballast, and all the fuel. It looks top-heavy, but the Dream is the most stable ship in the Disney fleet. Unless you look outside, most of the time you won’t even know you’re on a ship. That’s how smooth it is in the water.”

“It sure is pretty,” Mom observes, smiling. “And it’s a beautiful day. The weather is perfect. Since we’re early we should be able to board without much waiting.”

She saw to that when she upgraded us to the concierge deck with all the bells and whistles, including priority boarding and a private reception.

When we arrive at the port we’re delivered to a special ‘Concierge Only’ area where a porter takes our bags for delivery to our staterooms. We’re escorted past thousands of other fellow passengers to a private check-in area where we’re issued our Disney Passports, ID tags, and arm-bands for the kids so they can freely access all the kid’s areas.

“Are you guys all ready?” Dillon asks, gathering everyone near. “We’re almost there.”

Their excitement is palpable as they take in the view from the covered bridge suspended stories above the wide concrete dock below. From this vantage, we can see the ship we’re about to board in all it’s gleaming, high-tech beauty, as well the bay we’ll sail from.

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to us,” Chrissy says quietly, walking toward the window, looking out. “Mama won’t believe it. I wish she could see this.”

Dillon almost tears up upon hearing this. He puts a hand on her shoulder, then drops to his knees to hug her close.

“We’ll take a lot of pictures,” Dillon assures her. “We’ll show her how much fun you guys had. You’ll see.”

Chrissy nods slowly, a little unsure. There are tears in her eyes too. But Dillon hugs her tight, and that seems to smooth things over, at least for a little while.

My mom is already taking photographs, snapping as fast as her smart phone will go.

The kids get more and more excited as the day moves forward. We start with a meet and greet with ship staff and Disney characters in the main lobby, which is an over-the-top architectural experience given that it’s a tall atrium with more stories I can count from down here, with glass elevators constructed in gilt, wood, and stone.

“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” Dillon says, leaning into my shoulder as he peers up at the massively ornate, colored glass chandelier dangling precariously above our heads. Chrissy and Joe are hugging Goofy, posing for photos, and Jordan is loping up the grand staircase, taking the steps three at a time, headed for the next level.

We’re among the very first passengers to board, so the ship is still relatively quiet. I’ve done my research and plotted our course for the day. First, we eat before the crowds descend on the bottomless buffets, then we head up to the top decks for the pool and waterslides.

By noon, Jordan has Joey in a bear hug, screaming with maniacal glee as they descend the waterslide at lightning speed. Chrissy’s not a fan of the dizzying heights the waterslide offers, but in less than ten minutes she’s made friends at the pool and is taking turns with them jumping into the deep end, shrieking with delight.

“Those kids are so adorable,” Mom says while slathering sunscreen from her eyelashes to her pinky toes.

Dillon tips his shades up, giving her a dubious look. “I think it’s the boat,” he says. “They’re not nearly this adorable at home.”

“Yes, they are,” I beg to differ. “Just adorable in a moody, slightly insecure, waiting for the next shoe to drop, kind of way.”

He nods in agreement. “Exactly.” He sighs. “They miss their mom. And they’re adjusting to life without her, right now.”

Dillon gives me a look, and I squeeze his hand hard.

* * *

After swimming and waterslides, after the kids are suitably sunned, exercised, and all their energy burned off, we go back to our fancy, five-star staterooms. All of us are happy to change into comfortable summer clothes for a grand tour of the ship. I have an app on my phone with an interactive map of every deck, along with a schedule of every event, from pop-up magic shows to big theatrical productions. There’s something to do on board the vessel at every hour of the day, for every age group and gender.

After touring the kids’ decks, getting a good look at the arcades, the Millennium Falcon, having a brief exchange with R2D2, bumping into a handful of Stormtroopers, then discovering the miniature golf course, Dillon and I leave the kids with Mom, so we can check out the adult’s only areas. We discover a couple of nice bars and upper end restaurants, the spa, the Cove Pool (which looks like a great place to chill with drinks after dark,) and—best of all—a private sun deck on top of the ship reserved for concierge guests. It’s got a hot tub, a bar, and gorgeous ship’s boys in white shirts and tank tops, ready to wait on us hand and foot.

“I could get used to this,” Dillon observes, watching a tanned, buff young thing pass by with a tray of drinks.

“Only if you win the lottery,” I observe. “This is a fantasy vacation. Enjoy the beautiful view while it lasts.”

He slips his arm around my waist, pulling me close. “As long is you’re in my view, it’s always beautiful.”

“Keep it up,” I say. “I’ll take you back to our room, bend you over the veranda rail, and give all of Miami a view to remember us by.”

“Promise?” he asks.

“Oh, I guarantee it. You want to?”

He laughs, winking at me. “We should probably wait ‘til we’ve set sail. I’d hate to get us kicked off the ship before we’ve even left port.”

“Alright,” I agree. “But somewhere between here and Grand Cayman, your ass is mine.”

“Good,” he says, and he steals a kiss before we go off to check out the buffet.