Matisse opened his eyes. He’d heard Nora shut the curtains and leave and meant to get up after her. However, his body was still on a day-was-night and night-was-day schedule, so the idea had merely crossed his mind before he fell back to sleep.

His room was dark. The blackout curtains were closed. It left him off-balance, and he groped on the bedside table for his phone. It could be eight in the morning or one in the afternoon. He had no idea.

The message on his phone made him forget about the time. It was from his mother. Written in her characteristic short tone, she commanded him to call her to talk about Thanksgiving. Was it already the holidays?

Groaning, he fell back on the bed, phone dropping next to him. What had he done last year? He couldn’t remember. Was last year the year of the soup kitchen volunteering or was it when he felt the need to fly to New Mexico and race in the desert?

It might have been the soup kitchen year. Either way, his mother’s message meant one thing—he owed her a visit home.

And he didn’t want to go. Not this year. Not any year, really. What he wanted was to stay with Nora and his friends and start their own traditions. He was twenty-five years old, for God’s sake. How long was he required to visit his parents for the holidays?

Without giving himself any more time to avoid the conversation, he dialed the number home and waited for his mother’s smooth southern voice to answer.

“Hello, Matisse. Thank you for calling.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“I want you to come home for Thanksgiving. It’s been three years, and this year not only do I expect you to come, but I would be disappointed if you didn’t.” His mother’s statement of expectations and emotions brought him right back to elementary school and therapy. Back then, she was afraid he wasn't making social connections. She wanted him to be successful, so into therapy he went.

What Matisse had learned was there was a reason for his struggle to make and keep friends. It wasn’t, like his mother initially believed, that he didn’t care about other people or doing what his mother wanted; it was that he had no idea how to do it. His therapist had explained social mores and skills then practiced with him, over and over, until he could problem solve and negotiate with the savviest kid on the playground. Which he did. He did it because it made his parents happy and because it was what he must do. 

Not anymore. 

Now, he used those strategies, and the knowledge all those years of talking to puppets had given him, with people who cared about him. He didn’t want to misinterpret their signals or hurt their feelings. He wanted his friends, and Nora, to be happy and to do things that made them happy.

But his mom still didn’t believe he could make a decision without her laying out all the facts as she saw them.

“I’m not sure if I’m coming home yet. I need to talk to the guys.” 

He didn’t need to see her face to know her sigh contained all of her disappointment. “Matisse,” she began. “Let me be blunt—”

“Because you haven’t been already—” he interrupted, and she paused again, no doubt to let her silence sink past his skin.

“Your family needs you. Things with the business have been... difficult, and your father needs to speak with you.”

Ah. This was the purpose of her call. “I have nothing to do with his side of the business. When I agreed to take over Pepere’s business, it was with the assurance that our branches would be independent of one another. There’s no reason he needs to speak with me about business.” He let every ounce of his disdain seep into the word.

“Matisse Boudreau.” His mother’s voice came out whip sharp. “I did not raise you to speak to me this way. I am your mother, and you will show me some respect. If I ask you to come to Thanksgiving, you will come. I know you have issues with your father, but you are family, and you will not forget it.”

“I’m not coming to Mississippi, Mom.”

“I’ve bought you a ticket and a ticket for each of your roommates. I assume they aren’t going anywhere?”

“Cai is probably working.”

“No matter. Invite a girl. I don’t care. But I expect to see you at my table on Thanksgiving.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do.” Nicole Boudreau sounded certain she’d won the battle. But she hadn’t. In the years since he’d been home, he’d gotten a lot stronger. He may break the rules from time to time, but he never broke the immutable ones. Never again would he put aside what he wanted.

“Bye, Mom.”

“I expect to hear from you in the coming week with the number of guests I can expect. Of course we have room for you all here at the big house,” she continued, but Matisse had checked out. Every so often he would grunt. The sound satisfied her, and she’d go on. Her voice used the same honeyed tones he’d listened for as a child. Her cadence was as gentle as the breeze the fan would waft over him on summer nights.

He hated that fan. Hated the way the air blew his hair across his face. Most nights he picked up his pillow and smashed it over his face when the sensation became too much to handle. Amazing how his mother’s voice could soothe him one minute and irritate him the next. The honey too sickly sweet and the words false.

“I’ve got to go, Mom. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I’ll be in touch.”

His mother, so quick to remark on any of his missteps, let this one slide. “All right, darling. Remember what I said.”

She thought she had him, but she didn’t. If he decided to go to Mississippi, it would be on his own terms. He made his own rules, and he never broke them.