The gay son
My world smelled of many things: the sweet dust of old paper, the earthy aroma of the lavender tea I made every morning, and the rain on the stones of Place Bellefontaine... The other half smelled of the expectant murmur of students before an exam. That was my life as an Accounting professor at the local university. I spent my days teaching the inflexible logic of balance sheets and ledgers, and my evenings and weekends escaping the illogical and wonderful anarchy of fiction.
My bookstore, Le Nectar des Pages, was not big, but it was infinite. Each book was a portal, each armchair a refuge. Inside, I was simply Élien, the keeper of the stories. Outside, I was the gay son of the most masculine carpenter in town.
—Have you heard, Élien? Madame Dubois placed her wicker basket on the counter, her eyes shining with the fervor of the latest gossip. Sébastien de Valois has returned from Paris!
My heart skipped a beat, a silly echo of a summer memory. Sébastien: The name tasted like sweet, fresh lemonade and lavender.I shook my head, trying to dispel the image of two ten-year-old boys hiding inside a small house behind the windmill in the lavender fields.
—Oh yes. The whole town is crazy.
I responded, wiping the oak countertop with a cloth. I didn’t understand the commotion; He was simply a rich man returning home.
And one who had probably forgotten that I was his first love.
—They say he’s looking for a wife! —Madame Dubois continued, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret—. To keep his roots, you know. His mother wants a girl from Bellefontaine. Every mother with a marriageable daughter is losing her head.
I forced a smile.
—Well, I wish them luck.
When she left, I leaned against the counter, the silence of the shop wrapping around me again.
It had been more than a decade since I last saw Sébastien. I remembered a kiss, clumsy, quick and innocent, behind the old mill. His lips tasted like lemonade. From that moment on we met after school to spend time together. Nothing strange, just two children pretending to play “little house”.
I had blushed then and, to my mortification, I felt a slight heat rise to my cheeks even now. It was just a childhood memory, nothing more. Now he was a stranger, a prince returning to his kingdom. And I... I was still here.
That night, dinner at home was as silent and tense as always. My mother, a watercolor faded by years of disappointment, pushed the peas around her plate. My father presided over the table like a judge about to deliver a sentence. His gaze always brushed past me, never resting on me. Since he realized, when I was sixteen, that I would never give him the daughter-in-law or the grandchildren he believed were his right, I had become nothing more than a pretty but useless piece of furniture in his house.
—The Valois are giving a ball on Saturday —my father said suddenly, cutting his steak with surgical precision. He wasn’t looking at me, but at my mother—. They’ve invited all the “important” families.
My mother nodded without lifting her eyes.
—Élien too?
My father let out a humorless, dry laugh, and then he looked at me. His eyes traced my features—my long, wavy red hair, the face the townsfolk said I’d inherited from my Irish grandmother. People called me handsome. My father said it as if it were an illness.
—Of course he’ll go —he said, his voice dripping with the familiar contempt—. He needs to be seen. What a shame that my only son… —he left the sentence hanging, knowing it would hurt more that way.
The fork felt heavy in my hand. The knot in my throat was so tight I couldn’t swallow.
My father went on, savoring his own cruelty.
—With that face, it’s a pity you weren’t born a girl. If you had been a daughter, you would’ve been the perfect wife for that Valois boy. I would have made sure this family’s future was secured.
The air left my lungs. The words landed on the table like a gravestone. My mother shrank, her eyes fixed on her plate. I remained still, the heat of shame and pain burning me from the inside. And I said nothing. I never said anything. I had learned long ago that silence was my only shield.
The next day was no better. As always, we were dining in silence when my mother, unable to resist, dropped the bomb.
—Geneviève de Valois called me today —she said softly, addressing my father. My stomach tightened—. She wants to know if Élien could tutor Sébastien.
My father let out another humorless laugh.
—Well, well —he said, with the same old contempt—. So my son will go to the grand mansion to teach the heir how to count his own money. How ironic.
—But it will be after the ball —my mother continued—. It’s a priority for her son to meet all the eligible young ladies before diving into the exam.
My father dropped his fork with a clatter, as if punctuating the conversation.
—Perfect. —His voice was cold silk—. Let the town see my son is smart enough to serve the Valois, even if he’ll never be part of them.
He rose from the table, and with him, all the oxygen seemed to vanish from the room. My mother waited until the sound of his footsteps faded upstairs before reaching across the table and covering my hand with hers. Her skin was soft, but her grip was firm, an anchor in my private storm.
—Don’t listen to him, Élien —she whispered. Her eyes, the same gray as mine, were filled with a sadness that I knew very well.
That night, I made a decision. My father’s poison could only hurt me if I chose to drink it. For my own sanity, for the small flame of self-worth that still flickered inside me, I decided to ignore him. I would focus on my mother’s quiet love, on the refuge of my books, on the clean logic of my numbers.
And my mother, as if she had heard my thoughts, began her own silent rebellion.
The next day, I found her in the small sewing room, rolls of fabric spread out across the table. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating her hands as she caressed a velvet so deep green it seemed to hold the night of a forest inside it.
—For the ball —she said, without needing further explanation. Her smile was timid but determined—. I know it isn’t a gala dress, but I want you to look spectacular, mon chéri. You’re my only son, and you deserve to shine.
A knot rose in my throat—but this time from gratitude. While my father used words as weapons, my mother used her hands to build me an armor.
After my classes and my time at the bookstore, I would climb up to the sewing room. The hum of the sewing machine was a lullaby, the smell of new fabric a perfume of hope. She took my measurements with professional delicacy, her fingers cold but gentle as they traced the line of my shoulders, the length of my arms. We spoke about the drape of the fabric, whether the buttons should be mother-of-pearl or polished metal.
In that moment, I decided to anchor myself to that love. My father’s comments during dinner became nothing more than background noise, like the static of a poorly tuned radio. “Are you ready to impress the old ladies in town with your knowledge of accounting?” he would sneer. I only thought of the golden thread my mother was using to embroider a discreet monogram into the silk lining of the inner pocket.
On the night of the ball, the suit hung on the door of my wardrobe. It was a work of art! The forest-green velvet jacket fit my body to perfection, and the black wool trousers fell with an elegance I could never have imagined. My mother had chosen a cream-colored shirt and a silk tie that gathered the darker tones of the suit.
—Oh, Élien… —my mother said when I stepped out of my room, her hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears—. You are the very image of elegance.
I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. The deep green velvet made my red hair look like a controlled flame. For once, I didn’t see the “gay son” my father looked at with disappointment. I saw the son my mother dressed with love.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt ready to face the world—even if that world was about to spin around a summer memory that tasted of lemonade.
