#sh:david

After being honest with my dads about what had happened at my mom’s house with Jimmy, things felt a lot different. I won’t pretend that I was the perfect son. I still did things they didn’t approve of and was still my usual smart ass self. But things did improve a lot.

Even Cece took notice, though she wasn’t completely clued in on what facilitated the change. “You’re being a little less of an asshole than usual,” she remarked. 

“What? I’ve never been an asshole. I’m a perfect angel.”

“Yeah, right!”

“Well, hopefully since I’ve been acting better that means you’ll get me something good for my birthday.”

“We’ll see.”

When our 15th birthday came around, Chantal and I knew this year would be much different from the last, when our mom forgot about us.

Dad and Pops made us a cake with our favorite flavors–chocolate cake for me, and buttercream frosting for Chantal.

They got us most of what we’d asked for on our list as well. However, that wasn’t what made our birthday special. It was having their time and attention. Something they gave freely, without any expectations. 

“Thanks for making our birthday special,” Chantal told them.

“Yeah, we appreciate it,” I added. I truly did. I was finally beginning to accept the love they were giving me, and I had to admit it was a nice feeling. 

I still had a lot of healing to do–still do. What happened will never truly leave me, but it makes all the difference in the world to know I have a support system who will be there for me no matter what. I know they’ll continue to show up for me whenever I need them, and that’s the best gift I could ask for.

As the first few weeks in my new home passed, I didn’t feel much more secure. I was opening up a bit more, but I still had my guard up around my new family members.

David and Solomon decided it would be best for us kids to start individual therapy. It was a good idea on their part, but unfortunately it didn’t make much of a difference in my life (at least not for a while). As much as I needed it, I refused to participate in therapy. I sat in silence while the therapist attempted to lure me out of my shell to no avail. 

Chantal was faring much better with her own therapy. It was clear she was putting in the work. In all of the chaos surrounding me, Chantal tended to get lost; but she had trauma, too. 

Hers manifested differently than mine. While I was trying to be the worst version of myself, Chantal was trying to be the best. She helped around the house without being asked, excelled at school, and had a positive attitude. 

It was a hard facade to keep up, however, and I remember the moment when it cracked. Chantal was doing the dishes when she accidentally dropped one. 

It fell to the floor and busted into hundreds of little pieces. Chantal fell to pieces as well, sobbing and apologizing profusely.

Our dads weren’t mad at all, but that didn’t seem to reassure Chantal.

“I’m so clumsy! I shouldn’t have dropped that plate. I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

“It’s okay, it’s just a plate,” David told her. “We have more.”

“I can’t believe I was so careless! I promise I won’t do it again! I promise!”

David did his best to console her, and she eventually calmed down. It would take more than a few therapy sessions for her to work through her perfectionism, though. 

My new parents weren’t really sure what to do with me. Cece was the perfect kid; she did well in school, obeyed her parents, and never talked back. They’d never really had to discipline her much, so they were out of sorts when it came to deciding what to do with me.

I didn’t exactly make things easy. If they tried to punish me, I would just leave the house, which mostly worried them. They didn’t know what I was getting up to out there, which was a fair concern. 

Adding to their difficulties was my genuine lack of emotional control. Outside of my deliberate attempts to be a pain in the ass, I would have random meltdowns that were out of my control. It could be anger or sadness, sometimes a mixture of both. One minute I’d be fine, the next I’d be screaming and crying over the slightest inconvenience with no way to stop.

My family was basically walking on eggshells around me, trying not to set me off. David and Solomon ended up letting a lot of things slide that they probably wouldn’t have.

This angered Cece. 

“Why does he get to act however he wants without any consequences?” She asked.

“There are consequences, but sometimes we have to put safety first,” Solomon explained.

“It’s not fair! If I acted like that, I would be punished for it.”

“You don’t act like that, though. You haven’t been through what he’s been through.” 

The sad thing was, my parents didn’t even know everything I’d been through. Even in all of the court stuff, I was never completely truthful about everything that went on in my mother’s house, such as the physical abuse. I figured Mom and Jimmy were being punished anyway, so why bring it up? 

As resentful as she was of me, I was resentful of Cece as well. It didn’t escape me that if Solomon had known about me and Chantal then we probably would’ve lived with him sooner. Cece got to live the life that should’ve been mine–one free of abuse, neglect, and poverty–and all she could do was complain about me getting “special treatment.”

It’s safe to say that the two of us didn’t get along.

She and Chantal on the other hand were close from the start. In fact, everyone else in the family got along with the exception of me (which was mostly my own doing, to be fair). Even in a different environment, I was still left feeling like the outsider.

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You might think I was thrilled to be out of my mom’s house and away from Jimmy, but you’d be wrong. It’s not that I missed being there, but I was still unsure about David and Solomon.

While Chantal was happy to call them Pops and Dad, I continued calling them by their first names. They were essentially strangers to me, and it felt off to refer to them as my parents. 

Cece seemed well-adjusted, but that didn’t mean I would get the same treatment. After years of being treated worse than my siblings, a part of me wondered if I was to blame. Maybe if I’d done better in school or was well-behaved then I wouldn’t have been disciplined as harshly.

Deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. I wasn’t a bad kid, and the punishments given to me were things that no child deserved to go through. But if I did everything right and still got treated that way, where did that leave me? I felt helpless. 

There was only one way I could think of to find out exactly what type of people David and Solomon were. I would have to be the absolute worst version of myself. If I did that and they still treated me well, then I’d know for sure that they were safe to be around. It made perfect sense to 14-year-old me, so that’s what I did. 

It wasn’t that much of a stretch since I’d been acting out at my mom’s house for a while. I continued sneaking out, skipping school, smoking, and generally being difficult. Everything my dads asked of me became a battle.

“Did you do the dishes?” Solomon asked one night.

“No, you do them.”

“That’s not how it works. We cooked and you ate the food, so you should help with cleaning the dishes,” David chimed in.

“Get one of the girls to do it. That’s their job anyway.”

“That might be what you learned at your mother’s house, but things don’t work like that here. Everyone contributes.”

I felt bad; after all, I didn’t really believe the stuff I was saying, I was just trying to be combative. Regardless of my guilt, though, I had to soldier on. It was the only way I could get the answers I needed.

“Whatever.” I headed off towards the front door.

“Johnny, get back here! We’re not done talking to you,” Solomon called.

“Fuck off,” I said as I opened the door. 

“If you leave, you’re going to be in big trouble,” David told me. 

I kept walking.

It wasn’t until after the custody hearing that Chantal and I were able to have a proper discussion with our father.

He explained that he lived with his husband and their 16-year-old daughter, and that he had no idea that Chantal and I even existed. I was floored. For some reason, that possibility never occurred to me. I just assumed he didn’t want to be a father and bailed. That was what I’d been told, and I had no reason to believe my mom was lying. 

“Our daughter calls me ‘Pops’ and my husband ‘Dad’, but you don’t have to do that yet if you’re not comfortable,” Solomon told us. 

“Okay…Pops. I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’re gay, how are you our father?” Chantal asked him.

“Well, at the time I met your mother, I was in denial of my sexuality,” he explained. “I know it must be surprising to you that I’m gay.”

“We don’t mind,” Chantal assured him. “Right, Johnny?”

I wanted to confirm that was the case, but I wasn’t able to get any words out. I just nodded. 

When we got to our new home, I wasn’t sure what to think. It was on the nicer side of town, and it looked well kept. It was a lot bigger than our home in Grimm's Quarry.

We met Solomon’s husband, David, and their daughter, Cecelia, who seemed excited to have new siblings. 

“Chantal, you’ll have to room with Cece,” Solomon told her.

“That’s okay! I used to share a room with my older sister, Destiny.”

“Johnny, you’ll have your own room, but I’m afraid we have a lot of stuff in there that needs to be moved to storage. We promise we’ll get it moved out soon.”

They showed me to my room. I wasn’t expecting the stuff they’d been storing in the room to be wigs and women’s dresses, but that’s what I found when I opened the door. 

“Oh,” was all I said. 

“I do drag sometimes,” David explained. 

“Ok.” I still hadn’t said more than a couple of words to my new family members. I think I was in a bit of shock over the whole situation. 

Chantal on the other hand couldn’t stop talking. She asked them question after question, desperate to make up for lost time I suppose.

Once we arrived home from the doctor, I realized my parents weren’t as convinced about my cover story as the doctor had been.

They began to question me about the supposed fight I’d been in, and I found myself tripping over my words. 

In retrospect, I think they’d already had suspicions about what was happening at my mother’s house and that I wasn’t telling them the whole story. 

“Just tell us what really happened,” David begged.

“I did!” I insisted. 

“Johnny, your story doesn’t make sense. You’ve contradicted yourself more than once,” Solomon interjected.

“I can’t remember! It was a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” David said.

“Well, I still don’t remember. Can’t you just let it go?”

“This is a serious thing,” Solomon replied. “You could have been hurt a lot worse than you were. We need to know what really happened.”

“Why?”

“So we can help you.”

“How can you help me? It already happened, and I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, though. That’s the problem,” David told me.

“What are you talking about? The doctor said I’m healing.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about. We mean emotionally. Johnny, you've really been struggling. We can’t help you if you’re not honest with us.”

“You can trust us,” Solomon insisted.

“Can I? How do I know that?”

“Have we given you any reason to doubt that?”

“No, but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t know. Just leave me alone!”

“We’re not going to do that,” David said, kindly but firmly.

“You need help, Johnny,” Solomon added.

“No, I don’t! I’m fine!” I broke down. I began sobbing, and David and Solomon embraced me. I wanted to push them away, to tell them I didn’t need them, but I couldn’t.

At that moment, I told them everything. How Jimmy treated me, how I tried and failed to tell my mom, how I’d been acting out to test them. By the time I finished, there were tears in their eyes.

“Thank you for telling us,” David said finally.

“That was very brave of you,” Solomon added. They didn’t push me to tell them any more or bombard me with questions. They were just there. For the first time, I let my guard down and decided to trust them.

“Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Pops.”

I could tell they were happy to hear me call them that, but they knew well enough not to make a big deal about it.  

After that, things really began to change.

As nice as the Owen-Haim home was, it still didn’t quite feel like home to me. There was a bit of harshness to it. The decorations, nice as they were, could give so much warmth to the concrete walls and exposed pipes.

My old house wasn’t exactly chic with its cracked wallpaper, worn furniture, and tapestries tacked over the windows, but it was homey. I hated to admit it, but there were times that I missed it. My mom might not have been attentive in the past few years, but there was a time when she’d mark our height on the door frame, little notches penciled in to signify how much we’d grown over the year. I wondered if there was a new family living there and if they’d paint over those marks. 

Something began to change around the holiday season, however. Solomon had grown up Christian and David was Jewish. Though neither of them were particularly religious, they both had customs growing up that they had fond memories of and wanted to share with their kids. They incorporated traditions from both Christmas and Hanukkah during the holidays. It seemed a bit confusing to me, two conflicting ideas coming together as one, but they just explained that it was more about the family coming together than any ideology. 

As we set up the menorah and decorated the Christmas tree, the harshness of the house seemed to melt away. All the ribbons, ornaments, and candles added the warmth the house had once been lacking. 

It was the beginning of the Owens-Haim house becoming my home.

Our supervised visits with Mom continued, and I remained unwilling to speak with her. I could sense her frustration growing at every visit, but she hadn’t said anything. She was on her best behavior around the social worker. I worried about what would happen when we no longer had that safety net.

David and Solomon assured us that we wouldn't have to live with Mom if we didn’t want to. “We’re still required to send you for visits, but you’re old enough to decide who you want to live with. You can stay with us full time if that’s what you want,” Solomon told us. 

“Of course, you’re both free to make whatever decision you want,” David chimed in. “After all, she’s still your mother.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chantal told them.

“Yeah, me either,” I added.

As uncomfortable as I felt in their house at times, I knew things would be 10 times worse with my mom. I couldn’t even bear to speak to her, much less live in her house. 

Cece was glad–at least about Chantal staying. “I’m so happy you’re going to keep living here,” she told her. She turned to me. “You can feel free to go live with your mom.”

“Haha,” I replied, deadpanned. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“It was worth a try.”

“Okay, Cecelia, that’s enough,” David warned. “We’re all very happy to have you both in our family. Our home is yours for as long as you want it to be.”

Despite myself, I felt a grin spreading across my face, but I quickly caught myself and returned to a neutral expression. I wasn’t ready to feel happy to be there yet. 

“Thanks, David.” I said. They hadn’t mentioned the fact that I hadn’t started calling them Dad and Pops yet, but I could tell it hurt a bit. I hated to hurt them, but at the time I still felt like it was  a necessary test–hurt them to see if they’d hurt me. So far they hadn’t, but I remained cautious.