Happy Monday Reader,

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Last week I shared Chapter 1 of my novella called Love, and this week I'm sharing the next chapter.

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We go from Eli's POV to Tom's POV, his dad. This chapter is one of the most profound chapters I have written, so I hope you enjoy it.

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A quick note before we go into the story:

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When I submitted this novella to my professor he express the need for me to expand this chapter and the entire novella with also adding the mom's POV. I didn't, for a reason. In my story she is the villain, and I have no sympathy for her. However, I would like for you to reply to this, and any other email containing this story, to let me know if you think she deserves to have her POV on the situation. Was my professor right? Does she deserve to have more than the little tidbits she gets? Hit reply and let me know.

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The clock on the mantel ticked. Tom's footsteps wore a path in the carpet—five steps to the window, pivot, five steps back. His nails dug crescents into his palms. His jaw ached from clenching.

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Upstairs, Eli's door clicked shut.

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The sound cut through Tom like a blade. He saw it again—his son's face across the dinner table, the light dying in his eyes with each word from Marlene's mouth. The way Eli's shoulders had curled inward, making himself smaller, smaller, until he'd finally pushed back from the table and fled.

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Tom stopped pacing. Drew air into his lungs. Made his feet carry him toward the kitchen.

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Marlene stood at the sink, her spine straight as a board. The sponge moved over a plate—scrub, scrub, scrub. Water drummed against stainless steel. The same plate. Over and over.

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"Marlene."

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The scrubbing continued. Soap suds slid down her wrists, dripped onto the counter.

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"What is it, Tom?" Each syllable precise. Clipped. Her shoulders didn't move.

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"Are you really going to pretend nothing happened?" His voice came out harsher than he'd planned. The kitchen tile felt cold through his socks. He moved closer.

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Marlene's hands stopped. The sponge hung suspended over the plate, water streaming from it. Her knuckles were white.

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Then the scrubbing resumed, slower now. The dish clinked against the faucet. "I don't know what you're talking about."

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The words were smooth, even. But something in them made heat crawl up Tom's neck.

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"Eli." His throat felt tight. "Our son. He tried to tell you who he is tonight, and you brushed him off like it was nothing. Like he didn't matter."

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His hands were fists again at his sides.

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Marlene's shoulders went rigid. She set the dish down—the clank echoed too loud in the quiet kitchen. When she turned, her arms folded across her chest, a barrier between them. Her face was composed, but something flickered behind her eyes. Pain, maybe. Or fear.

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"He's fourteen, Tom." Her voice sharpened on his name. "Fourteen. He doesn't know what he wants, or who he is. Not yet."

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Tom exhaled hard through his nose. His fingernails bit into his palms. "He knows enough to have carried this by himself for God knows how long. And when he finally finds the courage to tell us, you made him feel like he was wrong. Like he was a mistake."

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Color flooded Marlene's cheeks. Her eyes flashed. She shook her head, quick, sharp movements. "I didn't make him feel anything, Tom. I was doing what any mother would do—helping him see what's right. He's just... confused. Kids get ideas, they think they know everything—"

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"This isn't just an idea, Marlene!"

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His voice cracked. The words tore out of him, raw and jagged. His chest heaved.

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"This is who he is. And the way you looked at him tonight... it crushed him. You could see it all over his face."

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Marlene's gaze dropped for half a second. Something crossed her expression—doubt, maybe, or recognition. But then she shook her head again, and her mouth became a thin, hard line.

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"No. He's a good boy. He's just... turned around. He doesn't understand what he's saying. It's our job to guide him back. To make sure he knows what's right."

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Tom stared at her. Really looked at her. The woman he'd married, the mother of his children, and suddenly she felt like a stranger. The distance between them yawned wide, a chasm he didn't know how to cross.

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"The 'right path'?" His voice came out bitter. "You mean the path that makes you comfortable. The path where he hides who he is just to make you feel better?"

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She flinched. Actually recoiled. But then her jaw set, her spine straightened even more. "I am not being selfish, Tom. This isn't about me. It's about Eli. About protecting him, about what kind of life he'll have if we just... let him go down this road."

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Her hands gestured, cutting through the air. "Do you think the world will accept him for this? Do you think his life will be easy?"

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Tom stepped closer. Close enough to see the tension in her neck, the pulse jumping at her throat. His voice dropped low, heavy with grief and anger tangled together.

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"The world will be a hell of a lot kinder to him if he knows his own mother accepts him first. If he knows he has at least one place where he doesn't have to pretend."

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He shook his head slowly. "But the way you're treating him... you're making him feel ashamed. Like he's something that needs to be fixed."

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Marlene's gaze slid away. Landed on the dish soap. The counter. The window over the sink where the darkness pressed against the glass.

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"I'm just... trying to help him. He's young. He doesn't know what he's getting into. And it's our responsibility to show him the right way, to keep him safe."

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"Safe?"

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The word exploded out of him. Tom's hands flew up. "You think filling him with shame, making him feel like he's broken, is going to keep him safe?"

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The anger surged, hot and unstoppable. "What he needs right now is love. He needs to know he's enough. But instead, you're teaching him to hate himself."

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Marlene's face went pale. For one moment—just one—he saw something crack in her carefully composed expression. Regret. Fear. Something human and vulnerable.

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But then her chin lifted. Her voice turned cold. Hard as winter stone.

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"You don't understand, Tom. This isn't about hate. It's about saving him from a life that will bring him nothing but pain."

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Disbelief washed over him. And sorrow. So much sorrow it felt like drowning.

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"You're so wrapped up in your own beliefs, in what you think he should be, that you can't see the damage you're doing."

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Marlene's eyes blazed. Her face hardened into something determined and unyielding, like granite. "I am his mother, Tom. I know what's best for him. I won't just stand by and let him ruin his life over something he doesn't even understand."

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Tom shook his head. Slow. Heavy. Each movement weighted with finality.

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"If this is what you call love, then I don't want any part of it." His voice was quiet now. Quiet and broken. "Because this? This isn't love, Marlene. It's control. And it's breaking him."

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Silence fell between them.

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Heavy. Suffocating.

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Marlene's face drained of color. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she held his gaze. Her jaw was set. That defiance still simmered beneath the surface, refusing to yield.

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Then Tom heard it.

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A soft sound. Muffled. Coming from somewhere beyond the kitchen.

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His heart seized.

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He knew that sound.

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He turned, his feet carrying him into the hallway before his mind fully processed what he was doing. His gaze went to the stairs.

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There.

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Halfway up.

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Eli sat hunched on the steps, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook. Small, devastating tremors. The sobs were quiet, choked, like he was trying so hard not to make any noise, but couldn't quite manage it.

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Something broke inside Tom. The anger drained away, replaced by a wave of sorrow and fierce, aching protectiveness.

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He climbed the stairs. Each step felt like lifting lead. When he reached Eli, he lowered himself down, his knees creaking. Gently—so gently—he rested his hand on his son's back.

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"Hey." His voice came out thick, clogged with emotion. "I'm here. I'm right here."

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Eli looked up.

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Tears streaked his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, wide and raw with pain. His breath hitched.

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"I... I heard everything." The words barely made it out. "She thinks... she thinks I'm wrong. Like I'm something she has to fix."

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Tom's chest constricted. The pain in Eli's voice, in his face—it felt like Tom's own. He pulled his son into his arms, held him close, pressed his cheek against Eli's hair. His own eyes stung.

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"I know, bud. I know. And I promise you, you're not wrong. There's nothing wrong with you. Don't you ever think that."

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They stayed like that. Wrapped in each other's grief. The house around them felt empty despite Marlene somewhere below, and Noah somewhere above. The tension hung in the air like smoke, like a ghost—a reminder of everything broken, everything that couldn't be fixed with just words.

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Finally, Eli pulled back slightly. His face was clouded, shadowed with doubt.

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"But what if... what if she never sees me, Dad? What if she never understands?"

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Tom swallowed hard. The question hurt. Hurt because he didn't have a good answer. He reached up, brushed his hand through Eli's hair the way he'd done since Eli was tiny.

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"I don't know, Eli." The honesty felt necessary, even if it wasn't comforting. "But I'm going to be here, no matter what. I'm not going to let you go through this alone."

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Eli nodded. Drew a shaky breath that rattled in his chest.

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Tom felt something settle inside him. A determination. A clarity he hadn't felt in the kitchen, through all that anger.

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He knew now. Knew it with absolute certainty.

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His loyalty was to Eli and Noah. To his children’s safety, to their hearts. Not to the house. Not to the marriage. Not to anything else.

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Nothing could take precedence over that.

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Nothing.

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That's it for today. I hope you enjoy it.

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I think you'll notice some differences on writing style in this chapter. Once I wrote the first chapter, my professor started lecturing on "show don't tell," so I made a concerted effort to apply what I learned in class. However, there is still a lot to improve.

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Until next time,

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