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“Can we get some fresh brews on, babe?”

“Do I look like your personal chef?” Gray sat back, crossing his arms. “You’ve been spoilt for the past few months. Here in this house, we make our own tea.”

“Bah,” my son said.

Bah, indeed. Okay.

“Stewart?” Gray nudged. And here I was, pushed in a corner, everyone’s eyes on me.

“I can’t explain it,” I said, hoping I sounded calm. “I’ve never been able to…you know. Connect with people. Not in that way.”

Good choice of words. The kids were back on their iPads, obviously nothing juicy to hear here.

Or not.

“Granddad, why are you not married?”

Oh, fuck my life.

“Because nobody wanted to marry me.” I’d toed that line for years, and now my son’s head was dead against the tabletop as he groaned.

“Dad, you need to start talking. It’s not good for you to be like this. Come on. I kept trying to get you to date, and you refused everyone. Then suddenly you’re having playdates with Dylan. There’s more to this, and I need to know before I start to worry about your sanity.”

“You already worry about his sanity, babe.”

I had no idea how I had survived living with these people for so long.

“I’m perfectly sane. Just…I never really…”

This was hard. Like a massive test I had no idea how to pass.

“What is this? An exam? I don’t really have any answers.”

Such a lame excuse. I was already ashamed of my choice of words. So were the boys, once again rolling their eyes. Gray leant back on the chair, recrossing his arms. Reuben was right. Those balloon muscles were ridiculous.

“Reubs sat through half a mock exam last night. Fifteen questions, straight up,” he said, staring at me, not missing a beat. “He got them all right and didn’t once stutter out any of his excuses about it being too much.”

“I can’t concentrate,” my son said flatly.

“I know you can’t. And you have to sit a thirty-question exam in two weeks. You’ve got this. We’re just building up to it.”

“What has this got to do with Dad being…like…queer?”

“Queer?” I said.

“Yes, Stewart. In the old days, it was seen as a slur, but it’s something the community has claimed back. It’s a good umbrella term. Covers the spectrum.”

“Spectrum,” I repeated.

“You know all this.” My son rolled his eyes. “How many times did you and I have this conversation? Like, hundreds of times over the years. I’m queer. I’m actually pansexual, but who the fuck cares? I’m married to the idiot across the table.”

“Daddy, you said a bad word.”

“I get to put the red dot on!”

Now the kids were fighting over the jar of magnets. We’d obviously created monsters here.

“I like… I’m…”