I send Mom a text before I even drive away from the hospital. I know she'll be up. She stays up later than I do most nights. But some part of me just needs to make sure she's still okay. When she texts back a minute or so later saying she'll put on a pot of coffee, I dock my phone in my car, make sure the Bluetooth is on, and start that way.

I "text" Reeve the whole time, trying to keep the mood light. Honestly, there's a part of me that gets anxious at every car I pass on the highway, and especially every set of headlights I see in my rearview mirror. Talking to him helps take the edge off, and keeps me from thinking too much about what I'm going to have to do.

I know this will hurt my mom. She'll be upset I didn't tell her; upset I didn't come to her. I think she'll also feel like she failed me, and I'm not sure how well I'm going to be able to handle that. But it's past time to tell her the truth about Blake—to tell her that I didn't even finish culinary school because I was in an abusive relationship.

The porch light's on when I pull into the driveway. It's still not all that late, and I can see lights on at the Fraziers' house, too. That makes me feel a bit better about getting out of the car, but I still don't waste any time getting to the front door.

Mom sits at the kitchen table, one cup of coffee in front of her and another set in front of the seat to her right. Drawing in a breath, I steel myself for what's to come.

But before I can even utter a greeting, she says, "I was wondering when you'd finally talk to me."

I stop dead in my tracks, caught completely off guard. There's nothing accusatory in her tone, but it's also missing that usual note of teasing she couches most things in. It's just a statement, spoken plainly, and I have no idea how to take it.

Without any kind of a response to give, I slink across the kitchen like I've just come in after curfew, only to find her sitting up, waiting for me. It's hard to remind myself I'm an adult now, and her opinion shouldn't matter to me so much.

But adult or not, it does. It always will.

"How much did you figure out?" I ask cautiously, dropping myself into a chair.

Her expression is searching when she turns to face me, her hands resting on either side of her coffee cup. "I may not know the details, but I know when something's going on with my son."

A memory surfaces in my mind, of a conversation we had at this very same table when I finally came out. I think she even said the same thing, or close to it.

"You remember when I was thirteen, and my math teacher called you in for a conference?"

Apparently it's fresh on her mind, too, because she snorts. "The one who thought you were on drugs? That woman was batshit crazy. Did I tell you she threatened to call DCF if I didn't check you into rehab?"

"Christ," I mutter, shaking my head.

Mrs. Poole was the kind of "concerned" teacher who gives genuinely good teachers a bad name. Her favorites could do no wrong, but anyone who ever acted up—and that definitely included me at that age—became an Enemy of the State. She'd find ways to send us up to the principal's office, at the very least, in the interest of protecting the other students. I'm pretty sure she got one kid suspended, and she might’ve done the same to me if my mom hadn't fought like hell to prove I wasn't on anything.

"You knew something was up with me, though," I say, looking down at my coffee.

"Of course I did." She says it as if she finds the very idea of her not knowing ridiculous. And maybe it is. "You were moody, but you never shut down like you did back then."

The truth was, I'd just started to figure out I liked boys. It wasn't as big of a deal when I was going to school, but gay kids were still the butt of the jokes and an easy target for bullies.

"I spent weeks getting sick every morning because I was afraid to tell you the truth. I was afraid of what you'd think of me."

She scoffs at that, which doesn't do a lot to reassure me. "Why the hell would I think any less of you? You know better than that, Eric."

I do, and I did back then. I can't even be mad at her for her tone now. There's something aggressively protective in it, and I can hear her own pain as she grapples with the fact that I would ever question her love for me.

But that's just it. I've never questioned that. I was never afraid she'd stop loving me or that she'd disown me.

I was afraid she'd treat me differently. Go out of her way to protect me. Do everything in her power to make life easier since she knew my being gay would ramp up the difficulty curve.

No one in their right mind would resent their mother for feeling that way; for wanting to do those things. But I did, because I know she's taken the entire world on without breaking a sweat. I know the kind of strength that lives inside of her, and I hate when she gives me an excuse to not live up to it.

I stay quiet for a long time, letting the warmth of the coffee seep into my hand. Eventually I raise the cup to my lips, swallow, and decide to take the leap.

"You were right, by the way. The guy who showed up here earlier, he’s the same Blake I dated in college.”

I can't say his name anymore without feeling an immediate flash of shame and disgust. I wonder if that will ever change.

"I was a junior when I met him. He was exactly what you said. Sweet. Funny. Smart. The kind of guy I could see myself building a future with." My fingers curl reflexively around my cup and I avert my gaze, knowing what's coming. "And then he started beating me."

Her sharp intake of breath doesn't do much to calm my nerves, but I force out the full story. I tell her how Blake was controlling and aggressive. How he'd shove me against the wall and punch me in the stomach or the side or the thigh or really anywhere but the face. How he'd grab me in a chokehold and wouldn't let go until I was almost about to black out. How he'd grind his knuckles so hard into my collarbone that I honestly haven't felt pain like it since.

I tell her all of that with tears coursing down my cheeks, powering through until I get closer to present day.

"I told you I was in an accelerated program, but the truth was I dropped out before I got my degree. I came back here, and when Blake tried to follow me, he got picked up for speeding. He assaulted the cop who pulled him over and got five years out of it, but a couple weeks ago they let him out on parole." I draw in a deep breath and let it out. "He's been trying to get to me ever since. Calling me, texting me. Wrecking the diner. Showing up here. Attacking Reeve."

And that brings us to now. After what feels like hours of me talking, dreading how she'll react, I've finally run out of things to say. There's only one thing left to do now.

I summon all the strength and courage I can and meet her gaze.

It doesn't surprise me that she's crying, too. I could hear her breathing start to get shaky as she tried to hold it in. Even the pain in her eyes doesn't surprise me. She bleeds for me, just like I knew she would.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, the words so watery that they almost don't sound like her.

It's like a sudden kick to the stomach. Even though I saw the tears, somehow hearing her try to speak in this state makes it that much more real. I've never seen her like this. Not once.

"You threatened to break a guy's wrist when he put his hand on your ass," I say with a humorless laugh. "You're the strongest person I know, and I just… I didn't want you to have to feel like you had to shoulder this for me, too. I didn't want you to have to take on even more because your son is weak."

She just stares at me for a moment, her face streaked with tears. My chin quivers as I try to hold in my own tears at the sight of it.

"Weak? Eric, what happened to you doesn't make you weak. You got yourself out of a situation some people never do."

"I almost didn't," I interrupt her. "I almost stayed—"

"But you didn't," she says fervently, reaching for my hands. I bite my lip as sobs threaten to overtake me. "You got out of there and you made this place better than it's ever been. The diner, Glen Springs, this house, all of it. That is strength, Eric, and I am so fucking proud of you, and so glad you're here."

I don't know what I was expecting. I guess for her to tell me I should’ve come to her—that I should’ve let her know about Blake and she'd take care of it for me. But this cuts straight through everything I've been carrying around with me for years. It feels like a weight is finally toppling, and I have no idea what to do with the extra breathing room.

Cry more, apparently. Big, ugly sobs that wrack my whole body and prompt Mom to pull me into a tight hug that I gladly accept even as I can feel her crying, too.

It takes me forever to even catch my breath, and once I do, she pulls back and takes my face in her hands.

"You are the strongest person I know," she says, and there's so much conviction behind it that I just…

Yep. Cry some more. Not as deeply this time, though. Fresh tears just spill from the corners of my eyes and I smile at her.

"I'm sorry I never told you."

"I know now," she says, "that's all that matters."

With her hands still on my cheeks, she leans in and kisses my forehead. She hasn't done that since I was a boy—maybe eight or nine at the oldest, before I started to protest.

Afterward, she pulls back and just looks at me. If I doubted her words at all, it's there in her eyes. Pain and sorrow at what I've been through, yes. But pride, too. Her eyes are overflowing with it.

She gets up, grabs us some tissues, and then—after her eyes are dried—she looks at me with the Tillman ferocity I know and love.

"Now. Tell me what I can do to help get this bastard put away for good."