Page 156 of Disarm
Straight line: man + woman = baby + happy grandparents.
My stomach does a weird flip. Not because I’ve given a lot of serious thought to kids—I’m twenty-two. My biggest responsibility right now is my grades, for fuck’s sake, but because I know the story beneath his words.
Gay equals no kids, which equals tragedy.
“Ashton,” Mom says softly, a warning in it. “You know that’s not?—”
“No, I… it’s okay,” I cut in, because part of me wants to answer this. On purpose. Not years from now when I’m blindsided by it.
I take a breath. My fingers tighten around Miguel’s under the table. He squeezes back. “I don’t… have a five-year plan,” I say. “I can barely plan my course schedule, let alone even think about being a parent. But… yeah. I’ve thought about it. Kids. Someday.”
The admission feels huge and fragile and terrifying.
Dad looks… surprised. “You have?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean… you know my past better than anyone at this table beside myself. Part of me thinks I’d be a disaster as a parent. Another part…” I swallow. “Another part thinks maybe… I’d be really careful. In good ways. That I’d… never do to a kid what they did to me and that I’d want to give them… something better.”
Miguel’s thumb stills on my hand. I don’t look at him because if I see his face right now, I might cry in this chain restaurant.
“The point is,” I force myself to keep going, “being bi doesn’t cancel that option. Neither does being with Miguel. There’s… adoption. Surrogacy. Donor stuff. Science, Dad. The timeline of queer people having kids is not just ‘never.’”
A corner of his mouth quirks despite himself. “Science,” he repeats.
“Also…” I exhale, giving him a look. “Please stop reducing my entire life to your hypothetical grandchild. I get that you want that. I… love that you can imagine that part of me. But you have to trust that if I want kids, I’ll figure out how to make that happen. And if I don’t…” I shrug again, smaller. “It’ll be because of who I am and what I ultimately want. Not who I sleep with.”
Dad stares at me for a second. The lawyer part of his brain is probably cataloguing every word.
Mom jumps in before he can rebut. “And you know,” she says, tilting her head, “I have heard there are many, many children who need homes. Who already exist. You do not need to make one with your body for it to count,mijo.”
Miguel clears his throat. “Also,” he adds, voice steady, “I’m only twenty-four. I can barely be trusted with a plant.”
“Barely,” I mutter. “That thing is clinging to life on vibes alone.”
“Shut up,” he says automatically, then goes on. “My point is, if I ever get to a place where I want kids? I’ll talk to my partner about it.” He looks at me when he says it. “We’ll figure it out. The question right now is not ‘how will you give me grandchildren,’ with all due respect.” His mouth twitches. “It’s, ‘Can you respect the person your son is choosing to build a life with in the present tense?’”
There it is. The legalese. With all due respect.
Dad’s eyes narrow, but not in anger. More like… assessing.
“I’m not… uninterested in your future,” he says. “It’s my job to think ahead. To see possible paths and consequences.”
“That’s your job as a lawyer,” I say. “As my dad, your job is… also to be here. With me. In this version of my life. Not just the one you imagined.”
He flinches. My heart is pounding too loud in my ears to calibrate.
“You’re… right,” he says finally, the words sounding like they’ve been dug up. “I am… clumsy with this. I’m trying to fit it into my existing frameworks and there… isn’t one.”
“No shit,” Miguel mutters under his breath, soft enough that only we hear it. My knee bumps his in warning.
“I can… adjust,” Dad says slowly. “I don’t… promise instant understanding. But I can… listen. I can stop asking whether this is a… phase. That’s not… fair to either of you. You’ve made it very clear you’re… serious.”
It’s not a confession, but it’s something.
He’s still struggling. That hasn’t magically gone away because I hit twenty points in Oregon. But he’s walking himself back from the “everyone else is wrong but me” ledge.
“That’s all I’m asking,” I say. “Listen. And… try.”
Mom reaches across the table then, laying a hand over his. “And in the meantime,” she says gently, “maybe we can just… enjoy dinner? Our boy played one hell of a game. That is a good day, Ashton.”
