The following weekend Patrick comes over.

When I answer the door, Eleanor is hiding behind me, pressing the full weight of her body against my knees almost to the point of them buckling.

Patrick bends down, sticking out his hand to introduce himself, and Eleanor only buries her face in further.

“I have something for you,” Patrick says, pulling his other hand out from behind his back, holding out a collection of pink carnations.

Eleanor gasps. “Pink! That’s my favorite color!”

She pulls herself away from me, tentatively reaching for them, but as soon as they’re in her grasp she runs away into her playroom. Eleanor emerges a few minutes later with a plastic cup—I’m not sure where it came from—and takes it to the kitchen to fill it with water, before setting her flowers in it. Because of the cup’s circumference and the height of the stems, they fan out awkwardly, dropping over the lip of the cup, putting the cup at a potential tipping point.

“Do you have a pair of scissors?” Patrick asks.

I walk into the kitchen, shuffling through a few drawers before finding a pair, handing them to him.

“How are you with scissors?” Patrick asks Eleanor. She shrugs. He looks over to me and I shake my head. “Well,” he continues, “make sure you ask your daddy to do this anytime you get flowers.”

Patrick pulls the flowers out of the cup and sets a few of the stems against the blade of the scissors.

“No!” Eleanor shouts. “That’ll hurt them.”

Patrick laughs. “Flowers can’t feel pain. When you cut them, it allows them to drink the water from the cup. Besides, it’ll also make them look really pretty in the cup.”

Eleanor nods and Patrick begins to cut and arrange the carnations in the cup while Eleanor watches intently.

Turning my attention back to the kitchen I begin pulling from the fridge an assortment of ingredients for tonight’s dinner.

“What can I help with?” Patrick asks.

I turn from the activities and see that Eleanor is, once again and not surprisingly, in her playroom and at the same time her own little world.

“How do you feel about brussel sprouts?” I ask Patrick.

“Amazing,” he says, perhaps a little bit too enthusiastically.

I laugh and rephrase, aware now that the intent of my question wasn’t properly translated or received. “How do you feel about preparing brussel sprouts?”

“Still amazing,” Patrick says, laughing.

I hand him the bag of brussel sprouts and a colander. He takes it to the sink, upends the bag’s contents into the colander and begins to wash them. As he goes to an available space on the counter on the opposite side of the stove, I hand him a chef’s knife and he begins to cut them: first the stem, then he cuts the sprout in half and peels off the first layer of leaves.

I continue preparing the main course. Spinach is chopped, along with garlic, basil, sun dried tomatoes before mixing it all together in some softened goat cheese and stuffing it inside some raw chicken breasts before placing it on the stove to sear

We’re silent while we work. Perhaps we’re focused on the task at hand, but I know for myself that I am back to feeling shy and uncertain what to say as a conversation starter. It’s an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, but I use the familiarity of my surroundings and my actions to loosen my grip on my sense of self.

“Do you cook often?” I ask. Ah, there’s a good conversation starter.

“As often as I can,” Patrick responds. “I’ve always found that it’s the perfect way to unwind after work. The laptop closes and instead of focusing on these invisible people that are somehow trading my work for invisible money, I can take care of myself.”

I laugh. “It’s like a videogame. Collect all the tokens in the level, watch the cut scene, begin again.”

“Do you play?” he asks.

I gesture towards Eleanor. “She’s my world. Most of the time after she goes to bed I’ll have an hour, maybe two, to myself. I haven’t felt the need to game in a long time. When I think about diving in, I can’t motivate myself to. New games. All the setup to get to the actual playing. And then, it’ll be time for bed. And I really like my sleep.”

Patrick laughs. “Sleep is the best cut scene.”

Things are looser now. We discuss every subject that reach the tip of our tongues.

I share about my parents and their never-ending drive to protect and shelter Eleanor; an extension of the years they spent trying to protect and shelter me.

Patrick talks about his childhood and the various parental pressures put on him to be someone he wasn’t. For him, being in the closet was annoying for a while. He wanted to be open to his family and friends, but didn’t feel like he could. The continual pressure from his parents to be their vision of a perfect son was like continually getting punched on the arm; lightly, but over and over and over again. It was like PTSD, but somehow worse=. If it had only been a single traumatic event, it could have easily been resolved with a few months of therapy. After a while it became infuriating and the defenses created by dealing with the stress and anxiety kept getting higher and thicker. Until he exploded.

We’re quiet, aside from the crackling of the stuffed chicken breast searing in the cast iron on the stovetop. I pull it off, setting it inside the oven, next to the roasting brussel sprouts to come up to temperature.

Eleanor has ventured into the kitchen to retrieve a juicebox from the fridge. She hands it to me to peel off the plastic on the straw. Handing it back to her, she pokes the straw in and takes a long drink.

“Dad?”

“Eleanor?”

“Can girls marry other girls?”

“Sure,” I answered. “Girls can marry anyone that they love.”

“Good,” Eleanor replies, “because girls are awesome!” She shouts the last part, emphasizing the final two syllables. And then she’s off, running, juicebox in hand, back to the playroom to play independently.

Patrick and I lean against the counter, continuing to talk and connect.

I talk about the last year and the struggles I had with my mental health.

Patrick talked about coming out after graduating high school. It was a traumatic experience for him going from his parent’s house to a college community with on campus pride parades and a gay bar and many people just like him, but the newness of being able to be his true self still made him feel ostracized even within such a welcoming community.

We refill our drinks and soon food is ready.

I call Eleanor for dinner and she immediately asks what she can do to help.

“She’s such a good kid,” Patrick says.

I hand her plates and silverware and she takes it to the table. Watching, I observe the haphazard way she sets the table: plates strewn across the table and the forks and knives placed with equal care. I sigh and head to the table to do it myself, but I pause. Why am I sighing? Why do I have this expectation that it will be done correctly when I’ve never taken the time to show her?

Eleanor has already disappeared again—probably back in her room—but I call her back into the kitchen.

Squatting down till I’m eye level with her, I ask, “Eleanor, do you know why it’s important to set the table?” She shakes her head. “It’s important to have a place to eat and gather. Food brings people together. So it’s important to have a place to share food; someplace that is recognized as a gathering place, which for us is our table.”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly, drawing out each syllable as she twists; a motion she does when she is nervous or thinks that she’s in trouble.

“I’m going to show you how to set the table.” She nods, a smile breaking out across her face. “Do you know why it’s important to set the table properly?” Eleanor shakes her head. “It’s because there’s a lot of effort put into the food we eat. Not just the time we spend preparing or cooking it in our kitchen, but all the other hands that touched our food: the farmers, the people who packed the food to send it to the store, everyone who worked at the store, even that nice cashier who gave you those stickers yesterday. When we set the table, we show respect and honor everyone who brought us this food to eat.”

So I show her how to set the table while Patrick watches a short distance away. I show Eleanor how to center the plate in front of my seat and then the proper placement of the knife and fork. I let her set the other two place settings. She does it much slower and more carefully than before; more aware of her movement this time. When she’s finished she smiles, proud of the work that she has done, and I give her a high-five to acknowledge her work.

Our conversations during dinner steer away from the past, and our focus turns to Eleanor as she regales us about her day. Or rather her imaginary day, since everything she is describing took place while we were cooking dinner. Children’s minds are funny that way. There’s this enviable time in their lives where they aren’t aware of time or the consequences of time.

After dinner, the normal nighttime routine begins. Patrick insists on staying and helping with the cleanup, so I usher Eleanor upstairs to begin her bathtime.

Once her hair is washed, Eleanor lays down in the tub and floats while I prepare her toothbrush before heading downstairs. Patrick is standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the cast iron. We begin the back and forth of “You shouldn’t have’s” and “I don’t mind’s” before Eleanor hollars, “I’m done!”

As she’s getting dressed, Eleanor tells me she has a secret. Bending down, she whispers in my ear asking if Patrick could read her a bedtime story. “You’re going to have to ask him yourself,” I tell her. And so, she goes downstairs. Patrick sees her, listens to her request, and graciously accepts.

We trade spots: I continue the cleanup where he left off, and Patrick sits on the floor reading a book of longer-than-advertised princess stories. Eleanor sits besides him and as I observe them together, I’m surprised by her sense of comfortability with him and his presence with her. Usually, when it comes to meeting new people, especially adults, she is cautious and on edge. Typically, the moment at the door where she hid behind my legs would continue until she was out of the vicinity of the strange adult or was coaxed out by some sweet treats or screen time bribes. But even without the bribes, she was comfortable and familiar with him.

When I met Veronica, there was that sense of comfort and familiarity. It was always coupled with this nudging; this sense of “you ought to” that felt like a magnetic pull and attraction. I feel something akin to that in my own sense of awareness of Patrick, but it’s different. Since our coffee and during this meeting, I felt a certain sense of power over myself. With that power came a certain sense of awareness that the power came from the absence of loneliness.

Reading time is over and I take Eleanor upstairs, tuck her in, and say goodnight.

Downstairs the conversations continue.

“I was a theatre nerd,” I tell Patrick.

“Really?” Patrick responds. “Acting?”

“Yeah,” I responded. “Especially in college. I was the whitest actor to ever play Othello.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of black face?”

I laugh at the irreverence of his joke and continue, “There was a night where I came home and saw the word ‘faggot’ carved into my dorm room door. It was the first time I was ever labeled something to that effect and I was a theatre nerd for a long time, playing roles where there were ample opportunities to hear comments like that. A month or so later, I wrote an op-ed in the school paper that got me in a lot of trouble with the jocks and the cool kids. It wasn’t my intent, but the piece came across as a hit piece. The weekend after the story published, I went to a kegger and got punched in the face so hard I shit my pants by someone yelling ‘faggot’ as he swung his fist at my jaw. I share this, but I know that I didn’t experience anything close to what you experienced growing up. I don’t even think I can honestly say that I can relate, but I do empathize with you and your experiences.”

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” Patrick says. There’s a moment of silence before he continues. “Can I be candid with you? I’m never one to jump into anything without a lot of analysis; psychoanalytical, pros and cons, the full gambit. Since I came out, I’ve only had two serious relationships. It’s not so much of a willingness to commit, but an unwillingness to be hurt or to put myself at the risk of being hurt. I’m not sure what to think of you. I see that there’s pieces of you still shattered from the loss of your wife and I want to be there to help piece you together as a friend, but I can’t ignore that there’s a certain level of attraction I have for you, as well as this pull to want something more. You have a beautiful daughter too and I’d love to get to know her. I just.” He pauses. “I just want you to know what’s been banging around in my head since I saw you at the concert.”

I’m quiet. Perhaps too long, but he waits patiently.

There’s so many different thoughts and conflicting emotions. How can you organize and compartmentalize when every single one of your synapses is firing a different thought or feeling? Instead I focus on what isn’t there and what’s not there is any sense of resistance to what he shared or the need to reject it—which surprises me more than anything else—but it allows a focusing and within that comes a calm and a voice that says, “You ought to.”

“I don’t really understand this journey that I’m on,” I begin. “I want to be happy and whole and I want all that for Eleanor and more. I’m not sure who I am right now without Veronica, but I know that when I’m with you, I don’t feel alone anymore and I feel safe and I feel like I want to be the best version of myself, which I haven’t been for quite some time.”

We sit and chat some more before I realize how late it is and my body begins shutting down as it recognizes that I should be sleeping.

Patrick says goodbye and as we part there’s this unspoken understanding that we’re going to give this a try. There’s a sense of fear and anxiety for what the future might bring, but I push it aside to embrace this moment; finally letting go in the most fullest of ways.

I’m happy.

And I’m not alone.