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“Thank you for making time for your parents, even though you’re such a busy boy with a busy big-boy job,” she lifted a dark eyebrow, giving me a look that reminded me so much of Mary. My mother and Mary’s mother are sisters, but Mary and my mother shared their sense of humor the most.

“Please don’t refer to me as a big boy,” I rolled my eyes, “I’m a fully grown man.”

“But you’ll always be our special little boy,” my other mother, Lisa (Mama), spoke up from off-camera, “No matter how impressive your job title is.” Being raised by two mums wasn’t the easiest way to grow up in South London. Homophobia was alive and well during my adolescent years, which made navigating which of my schoolmates I formed crushes on much more complicated. Looking back, after figuring out societal expectations and finding friends and family who became safe spaces, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

There was about a year where I wondered who the sperm donor my mothers used was. Where he was. I was curious if he would provide a piece of my upbringing that I didn’t know I was missing. It was easy to look at my classmates who had fathers and feel left out.

It wasn’t until secondary school, when a teammate of mine saw both of my mothers sitting off of the pitch, cheering and waving hand-made signs for me, that I realized how well I had it.

“…I’d rather have two mums than my father any day,” he had murmured the comment under his breath during warm-ups before our rugby match, and those words stuck with me ever since.

“Where did you go?” Mama asked.

I had her blue eyes, but she had blonde hair whereas I had black. Genetics from the sperm donor pulled through for our family, because even though I was a white man, my black hair still looked similar to Mummy’s dark Chinese hair. I looked like a blend of the two of them.

“I just miss you both,” I sighed as I took a seat at my kitchen counter. My flat was still very bare because I was dragging my feet on decorating. Every time I thought about hanging up the art I bought, I sat on the couch and scrolled on my mobile or watched the telly instead.

“When can we come visit you?” Mama asked with her hands clasped under her chin, “We didn’t want to visit too early. We wanted to give you time to settle into your new home.”

I grinned, “You can come whenever. I know Mary would be excited to see you both.”

Mary was also an only child. Her parents ended up moving to California when we were very young. Thankfully, our mothers helped Mary and I maintain a close relationship through writing letters and later, when technology allowed, video calls. Social media also helped us stay close throughout adulthood.

We would take turns visiting each other’s families for the holidays, so while I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with Orange County, it was still the first time I waslivinghere full-time.

“Tell us about Jamie,” Mummy wiggled her eyebrows, “Though, I have only heard good things.”

“Based on what I’ve seen, Jamie is perfect for her,” I agreed, “They’re very happy, even in the office. She seems like the perfect balance for Mary.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it,” Mama sighed.

“She seems to smooth some of Mary’s rougher edges,” I drummed my fingers on the countertop, fidgeting.

Jacqueline had rough edges, but I didn’t consider those to be negative in any way. It just was who she was. A part of her that helped make up that beautiful brain that I still craved to learn more about.

“Are you interested in dating at all?” Mama asked. I panicked because it was as if she had just caught me thinking about Jacquline. I opened my mouth to respond but clamped it shut. I hesitated, but my mothers knew me too well. I saw both of their faces squish closer onto the little phone screen they were using to call.

“Oh my word, is he blushing? Leo, who are you seeing?” Mummy asked.

“He? She? They?” Mama followed up with.

“Um,” I cleared my throat, “I haven’t been dating, no. But also…she.”

Both of my mothers squealed, which made me want to simultaneously groan with embarrassment and hide in their embraces.

Perhaps I wasn’t as much of a grown man as I claimed.

They would always be my safe space. They were the ones who held my hand to help me understand my own sexuality. That I was allowed to be attracted to more than one type of person. They were the ones who sent me with condoms off to university. My mums never made me feel embarrassed or ashamed talking about the intimate matters of sexual relationships. They were the perfect balance of a listening ear, or a helpful sounding board when needed.

“Tell us about her,” Mama rested both of her fists under her chin, her blonde eyebrows rising.

“I…work with her,” I started with a wince.

“Lovely,” Mummy added, “Does Mary know her?”

“Yes—but she doesn’t know about our—or I guess my…feelings?” Why did I make it sound like a question? Like it was much more romantic than it was?

“What? Why?”