homophobic Uma Thurman

09:30 AM. 28 April, 2025. Genoa, Liguria, Italy.

Ilyas did not like it when one of them left.

They noticed in the weeks after his revival, when the burden of his illness finally lifted, that the boy began to question whether everything he now had was something he could trust. This newfound warmth, this safety, these two men who never hurt him. Could it be taken away? Could it disappear? He had no framework for permanence. Every good thing he had ever known had been snatched from him eventually.

Toys given and then taken back.

A moment of peace interrupted by orderlies coming to fetch him for another test.

A flicker of kindness from a nurse, swallowed up by the brutal culture of efficiency that dominated the place where he was made.

Separation anxiety.

They both knew the name for the behavior they were observing. It would have been developmentally appropriate for a child half Ilyas's age, but very little about Ilyas was developmentally appropriate. He was a boy who had spent his first three years learning that adults did not care if he was frightened, or in pain. He could cry until his voice gave out, and nothing would change. If someone came, it would not be to comfort him.

At night, in the dark of their bedroom, they would whisper back and forth about the small and big signs.

He always holds on to my clothes. If I'm holding him, or just sitting beside him on the floor, his hand is on my sleeve.

At night, he won't let me leave his room if he's still awake.

Whenever he sees me lacing up my boots to go outside...

Yesterday, when I picked up the keys to check the mail, you should have seen his face.

They knew they could only prove, day by day, night by night, that they would always return. But that sort of proof was slow work. It could not be rushed. It could not be reasoned with. It could only be learned through tireless repetition.

The behavior extended even to the daylight hours.

Whenever one of them needed to run an errand alone, Ilyas's lower lip would begin to tremble. His eyes would widen, confused, searching the face of the parent who was preparing to leave.

"Joe leave?"

"Just to the supermarket. I'll be right back."

"I go?"

"No, habibi. It's raining too much outside. You stay here with Papa."

And then the tears would come. The desperate "I go, I go, I go!" would repeat like a broken record, sometimes until he began to choke on the words, until his small body would heave with the effort of trying to make them understand what he could not articulate.

Don't leave me. Don't leave me. Don't leave me.

It was a season that would pass. They took turns reminding eachother, multiple times a day.

They were learning a new kind of patience, just as Ilyas was learning. With enough time, he would begin to understand that retreating footsteps returned, that the world outside their home was not a void trying to swallow people whole.

One day, this boy would be a teenager who would prefer that they stay out all afternoon. One day, he would roll his eyes before closing his bedroom door and demanding to be left alone.

But now he was small, and his short blip of life had not offered him enough experiences to build a foundation for trust. He had never been allowed to be a baby. He had never learned, in those first crucial years, that crying brought comfort, that hunger brought food, that fear brought safety.

The Wednesday morning market in Genoa was a ritual they used to uphold decades ago, long before Ilyas. The Mercato Comunale lived in a grand nineteenth-century iron-and-glass building, its vaulted ceiling arching over stalls of fruit and cheese and fresh pasta, of olives and fish and bread that still held the warmth of the oven.

Today, spring was trying to announce itself. The sky was a crisp, bright blue, and the sun had some warmth to it, but a stubborn winter chill remained lurking in the shadows.

Ilyas walked between them.

One small hand secured in Joe's palm, his other gripping onto Nicky's index finger. He was bundled in a black, wool coat, a knitted hat was pulled down to his eyebrows, making him look like a small bird.

He was walking more confidently now. His stamina had noticeably improved. A lap around their neighborhood no longer left him winded, so he insisted on using his short legs whenever possible. The word "no" had become a frequent sound in their home, delivered with a sharpness that made Joe's mouth twitch and Nicky's eyebrows rise.

No carry. No help. No. I do it.

They prefered to pick their battles.

The train ride into the city center was Ilyas's favorite part.

He sat on Joe's lap, his cheek pressed against his father's chest, his eyes fixed on the window as the coastline blurred past. The sea was grey-green, with choppy, whitecaps flecking the surface like scattered bits of foam. Gulls circled and dove over the water, and every few seconds Ilyas would track one with his finger, pressing it against the cold glass.

"Il mare," he murmured. The Italian was soft and sure now, the vowels round, the consonants clean. "So big."

"Sì, molto grande," Nicky agreed, seated directly across. While Joe and Ilyas watched the world through the window, his focus remained entirely on them. Chin resting in his hand, he managed to hide an understated smile. "Più grande di te, eh?" (Yes, very big. Bigger than you, huh?)

Ilyas considered this. His small face scrunched in thought.

"Più grande di Baba," he decided. (Bigger than Baba)

Joe laughed at the sudden declaration, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head.

"Much bigger than Baba," He agreed. "I know you think I'm big now, but in fifteen years, you might be bigger than me."

Ilyas' head lifted from Joe's chest, his eyes sharpened.

"No."

"No?" Joe repeated.

"No." Ilyas insisted, now emphatic as he pointed to himself. "Io piccolo. Tu grande." (No. I'm small. You're big.)

"Today, yes." Joe began, trying and failing to hide his own amusement. "Today you're small and I'm big. But one day—"

"No!" Ilyas's voice rose with his need to be heard, his brow furrowing deeper. "Baba non è piccolo. Baba è...è..." (Baba isn't small. Baba is...is...)

He looked to Nicky as he searched for a different word, his lips pressing together, struggling to find what he wanted. After a moment, his small hands clenched into fists, he lifted his arms in an attempt to show what he needed to convey.

"Fortissimo?" Nicky supplied, his mouth curving into a bigger smile. (Very strong?)

"Sì." Ilyas promptly nodded, appearing satisfied. "Fortissimo."

He continued to watch out the window for the rest of the ride into the city center.

Once they arrived inside the market hall, Ilyas' head was on a swivel.

This was bigger than the little farmer's market near their house, the one they walked to on Sunday mornings, the one where the vendors knew little Elia Moretti by sight and would slip him samples of strawberries or slivers of cheese. The Mercato Comunale was a different universe. The fruit stalls stretched longer, the brightly colored citrus and apples stacked in even taller pyramids. Strings of sausages hung from hooks like garlands. Whole fish lay on beds of crushed ice, their silver scales gleaming.

Vendors called out to each other across the aisles, their voices rising and falling. The smell of roasting chestnuts mingled with the brine of olives and the sharp tang of aged cheese. There were so many things that Ilyas didn't have names for yet.

People bustled all around them. Old women with rolling carts. Young mothers with babies strapped to their chests. Workers dressed for the office, grabbing a quick focaccia e cappuccino.

Ilyas clutched tightly onto Joe's hand, his little legs working hard as they moved between the stalls. He stopped occasionally to stare at something. Once a pyramid of blood oranges, another time a tray of glazed pastries. His fathers would always wait, patient, letting him look for as long as he needed.

Nicky led the way, weaving through the crowd with the ease of someone who had walked these aisles for decades. Joe followed half a step behind, Ilyas's hand in his, his body angled to shield the boy from the worst of the crowd.

Ilyas was doing well. Better than either of them had expected. But they could see the fatigue creeping in—the way his steps were growing shorter, the way his grip on Joe's hand was tightening, the way his eyes started to favor the ground.

They offered to carry him. Twice. Three times.

Each time, he refused.

"No. Cammino." (No. I'm walking.)

Nicky and Joe exchanged a look. They would give him a few more minutes. Then they would insist.

After they had made almost a full lap through the bustling market hall, Joe announced that he wanted to buy lamb for dinner. The halal butcher's stall was at the back, near the hot food counters where people would queue for lunch. Joe knew the butchers there well. had known them for years, in fact, had watched the business pass from father to son to grandson.

The crowds were thickest at the back. The aisles narrowed, the shoppers jostled, and the sound of voices rose to a dull roar. Steam from the hot food stalls clouded the air, carrying the scent of roasting chicken and fried arancini.

Joe paused off to the side, Ilyas's hand still in his. He watched the crowd for a moment, assessing. The butcher's stall was visible in the distance. There were men in white aprons stained red, a gleaming display case with various cuts of meat arranged on beds of parsley. He could see a whole lamb hanging from a hook, its legs trussed, its body split.

He did not think it would be a good idea for Ilyas to come with him.

He turned to Nicky.

"It's a bit of a madhouse over there," he said. "I'll grab the lamb myself. It'll be faster."

Nicky followed his gaze. He saw the crowd, the butcher's stall, the hanging carcass. He saw what Joe was not saying.

"Va bene," he agreed. He looked down at Ilyas, offering his hand. "Vieni, lupetto. Baba is going to get the meat, but he'll be right back. We'll wait together."

Ilyas looked up at both of them. His small face shifted, the ease of the past few moments draining away, replaced by something immediately more cautious.

Joe squeezed his hand once, then let go. "I'll be right back. I promise."

"No..." Ilyas shook his head, his small eyebrows knitting together. He reached for Joe's hand, his fingers grasping at empty air.

Joe sighed the boy's name, his eyes kind and patient as he knelt down. "Guarda," he said, pointing toward the butcher's stall. "Do you see all the people over there? It's too much, Ilyas. You won't like it."

Ilyas craned his neck to look where Joe was pointing. He looked at the crowd—the jostling shoulders, the raised voices, the way the people pressed together like cattle in a chute. His frown deepened, but he did not look convinced.

"No," he said. "Joe stay." His small hand reached out, gripping the sleeve of Joe's coat, holding on with surprising strength. His lower lip was beginning to wobble. His weight shifted uneasily from foot to foot. All tell-tale signs they had come to recognize.

They were trying to transition to "Baba" and "Papa". For over a week now, they were constantly using the words themselves, encouraging Ilyas to follow. But old habits clung. During those crucial first two months they spent together, they had only ever been Joe and Nicky to him. The new names were still settling, still finding their place.

Joe gently gripped the little hand clutching his coat sleeve. He pried it loose, enveloping it in his own palm.

"Baba," he corrected softly. He lifted Ilyas's hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. "Baba has to go buy one more thing, okay? Really fast. Then we go home."

"I go." Ilyas pleaded.

"Ilyas."

Nicky crouched down, bringing himself to eye level. His voice was calm, measured, the voice he used when Ilyas was spiraling and needed something to stop the momentum.

"Do you see over there?" He pointed toward the far corner of the market hall, where a book vendor had set up a sprawling display. "That's the book seller's stall. Let's go look together. We'll choose something to read for the train."

Joe smiled at his husband. Amused by the bribery. Grateful for the rescue.

"That's a good idea, isn't it?" He nodded to Ilyas. "You can go look at the books with Papa. I'll buy our dinner. Then we go home on the train. Yeah?"

Ilyas's lower lip still protruded. The tears were still gathered in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill. But the meltdown, the full-on gasping, desperate meltdown that they had both been bracing for, had paused.

He looked from Joe to Nicky. From Nicky to Joe. His small chest rose and fell.

"Treno," he said finally. The word was thick, wobbly, but it was a sign of acceptance. (Train.)

"Sì, il treno," Joe agreed. He kissed Ilyas's forehead, lingering for a moment, breathing in the smell of him, all lavender shampoo and the lotion Nicky slathers him in. "Torno subito, habibi." (Yes, the train. I'll be right back.)

Nicky gently claimed one of Ilyas's free hands. He straightened slowly, guiding the boy to his side, and took the first cautious step toward the book vendor's stall.

Ilyas looked back over his shoulder.

But Joe was already gone. Disappeared into the crowd.

Ilyas stared at the place where his father had been. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Then Nicky squeezed his hand, and he turned, and he followed.

The book vendor's stall was impressive in size, but mercifully uncrowded. There were tables piled high with new releases, carts overflowing with discounted paperbacks, shelves of children's books arranged by age and subject. A striped awning stretched overhead, decorated with lights that cast everything in a soft glow. The main vendor himself was a round man with a magnificent mustache. He was busy helping an elderly couple select some magazines.

Immediately, Nicky spotted the section with children's books, situated further down at the corner. Nicky, looked down at Ilyas, and promptly understood that his eyes failed to see over the tables.

"Dai, piccolo. Su con me, così vedi tutto." (C'mon, little one. Up with me, this way you can see everything.)

His hands slipped beneath his arms, and in a smooth motion, he lifted Ilyas over his head, settling him down onto his shoulders. He half-anticipated a small cry of protest, but familiar little hands only gripped his face in response, pulling the stubble covered skin of his jaw.

Nicky had never carried Ilyas like this before. Joe hadn't either, as far as he could recall. It was a fairly safe assumption that no one had ever lifted him this high before. He rested a hand on the boy's shin, pausing for any signs of nervousness.

But there were none. Only the silence of a child's trust.

"Allora, cerchiamo un libro per te e uno per me. D'accordo?" he asked. (So, let's find a book for you and one for me, okay?)

Ilyas did not answer. He was looking at the market hall, at the crowd, at the place where Joe had disappeared.

Nicky waited. Still no complaints.

Gently, he turned and began to walk.

The children's section was bigger than he would have imagined, consisting of two tables packed high with picture books. They were impossible to miss, the primary colors, the cartoon animals, the glossy covers that caught the light. Nicky stopped there, Ilyas still perched securely on his shoulders, and began to scan the options.

He pulled a book from the nearest stack. A stroke of luck, it was a board book about reptiles. The cover was illustrated with a smiling green turtle and purple crocodile. Knowingly, he held it up for Ilyas to see.

"Ecco, lupetto." His index tapped the cover. "Guarda. Che cos'è questo?" (Here, little wolf. Look. What's this?)

Ilyas's attention shifted. His dark eyes found the book, found the smiling turtle, found the bright purple crocodile on the page.

"Un coccodrillo e una tartaruga!" he whispered.

"Sì! Bravo." Nicky beamed.

Ilyas' ever-developing speech was still something to marvel at. It was rare that he used articles, often dropping them in that typical toddler pattern. But more often, he was starting to surprise them and say things that sounded older, that sounded closer to what a three year-old should be able to say.

He offered the book up to Ilyas, who took it with both hands, his small fingers curling around the edges.

Finally, he was able to begin browsing for himself.

Nicky had to congratulate his own idea. Carrying Ilyas in this way was undeniably practical. It freed up his hands, allowing him to skim the paperbacks more easily. As another plus, Ilyas was content and happily distracted, no longer worriedly thinking about his other father on the far end of the market.

Twelve minutes later, Joe found them.

He spotted Ilyas first—the dark wool coat, the knitted hat, the small shape perched high on Nicky's broad shoulders. The boy was holding a book upside down, his head tilted, his expression one of profound concentration. His lips were moving, forming words that Joe was too far away to hear.

Just below him, Nicky was a mirror of their son, a worn paperback open in his hands. His lips were slightly parted, his brow creased, his attention entirely absorbed by whatever was on the page.

Joe recognized the cover. Baldwin. Giovanni's Room.

A part of him had no desire to approach. He was seized by a twinge of regret for not bringing along his old camera, because this moment was one he longed to encapsulate. Soon, terrifyingly soon, this boy would be too big for Nicky to carry on his shoulders, too big for baby books about his favorite animals, too big to remember a time when he was afraid to watch one of his fathers walk away. Instead, Joe could only remain planted a moment longer, religated to trying his best to engrave the image of his son and husband in his mind.

But he finally crossed the space between them, weaving between tables and around other shoppers, and came to a stop at Nicky's elbow.

"Don't we have this one?" he asked.

Nicky looked up. His eyes were soft, distant, still half-lost in the world of the novel. But they promptly focused, settling on Joe's face, on his brow shadowed by the brim of his newsboy cap. He melted.

"Probably," he admitted. "But not at this house. And it's been a while."

Joe's eyes rose to their son, who was still fully engrossed in his own book, the spine propped atop Nicky's head. His free hand lifted to grip his small ankle.

"Ciao, Ilyas..."

At the sound of Joe's voice, Ilyas hardly stirred. He refused to pull away from the brightly colored images holding his attention.

"Ciao..." He mumbled back, distracted.

Joe blinked, his head tilting in mild surprise.

"You were nearly in tears when I left. This is the welcome I get upon my return?"

Nicky was unable to watch Ilyas' face, but still drew ample amusement from watching Joe's reactions.

Joe tugged on the boy's ankle. "C'mon, do you want me to carry you now?"

"No." Ilyas hummed, ignoring the hands held up to him in invitation.

He held on tighter, his legs now digging in to the sides of Nicky's head. The movement tugged loose a few of the hairs fastened with an elastic at the nape of his neck, but he didn't mind.

"He likes it up there."

"I guess so." Joe conceded, adjusting the tote bag hanging from his shoulder.

Nicky closed his book. He slipped it back onto the shelf, sighing "Another time..." .

He stepped closer to Joe, close enough that their arms pressed together. His hand found the small of his back, fingers splaying wide.

"Andiamo a casa?" he asked, ready to steer them out into the crisp air. (Shall we go home?)

Joe nodded, ready to be led. "Andiamo."

They walked out of the market hall together, the three of them, into the cold bright afternoon. Ilyas' head stood high above the rest of the crowd, an unbothered and unaware king. One of Nicky's large hands kept hold of his shin, securing him.

Behind them, the market continued to hum with the endless commotion of a city going about its day. The crowd inside would only continue to grow. Ahead of them, the street opened onto the piazza, where the light fell in pools on the very old stone.