How did it feel to have Malcolm call me Dad? It scared the shit out of me. That responsibility, the heavy-handed truth, punched me in the face. Nicknames were easier. He was Little M, and I was Big M. But ever since Nick had left, I had to hear the D word that much more.

It helped that I wasn’t alone. We all knew the rule. Don’t fuck up the kid, but he was my kid. Malcolm was my son. I hated having to admit it, but with my boyfriend gone, I was beginning to close some distance.

On a Thursday afternoon, it all had finally sunken in. Malcolm had done something to get his mother, and I pulled into his teacher’s classroom. At first, we thought Mrs. Brown wanted to tell us more about how well-adjusted our sun was.

Malcolm knew all his shapes, could write his name, and knew the theme song to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles by heart. Not only that, thanks to Nick, my son knew more colors than anyone. He’d sometimes annoy his teacher by pointing out the difference between fire red and fire truck red.

Of course, that Thursday afternoon, Cindy and I thought our son had done something else to earn a gold star.

“A fight?” I asked, stunned to hear the words coming from Mrs. Brown’s mouth.

My son had gotten into his first fight. Of everything he got from Cindy and, hell, all he got from Nick, I wondered how long it would take for my traits to show. Terrible or not, that instinct, that sure feeling that he was mine, hadn’t flipped on until that instant.

“A student from an upper class heard Malcolm talking about two dads,” Mrs. Brown explained to Cindy and me while Malcolm was sitting in the hall just outside the classroom.

“Why was he with older students in the first place?” I barked at the old woman, overcome by an instinct I never knew I had.

“Our kindergarten to first-grade class sometimes share a classroom. Often, their lunches overlap as well,” she told me, and Cindy added, “Tom, calm down.”

Some punk had hurt Malcolm, and they wanted me to act like it was nothing to be upset over? I nearly left the room until Mrs. Brown told us, “Malcolm was the first to become physical in this altercation. The other student was noticeably distraught after the fight.”

Suddenly my protective need flattened, but it was quickly replaced with... pride? My son not only got into his first fight, but he had won. I caught myself as the thoughts flew through my mind, but they wouldn’t go away. Fear and pride. Like a seesaw, I went up and down both ends. But I had gotten on the ride.

Later that afternoon, after driving home, Cindy sent Malcolm to his room so we could figure out what to say to him. The entire time, I fought against my urge to smile, to laugh, to grin. My son had won a fight.

“This isn’t funny,” Cindy said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

We took to the backyard, where Malcolm wouldn’t hear us through the walls.

“I know,” I said.

Cindy, still in her cleaning uniform, had taken off her shoes to stand in the grass.

“We need to make it clear this isn’t alright,” she said, looking up at clouds in the sky.

There were always clouds, but they were like paint when the sun set.

“And we will,” I said.

“Malcolm can’t get into fights over name-calling.”

“I know.”

“He has one father. He should know that by now,” she added with a hand on her hip and a hand on her head.

We were both tired. No, Nick meant everything was harder on us both. One of us would have to get dinner going soon, or else we’d all go to bed disappointed and hungry. Though I had expected as much, Cindy may have been blind until my boyfriend took his trip.

I walked into the yard, stopping a few steps away from the upset mother.

“Look. I’m with you. Fighting is bad. We get that. But the name calling, it’s not going to stop,” I told her.

She turned to look at me, but I hadn’t said anything but the truth.

“What are you saying?”

“We need to explain to Malcolm what it means to be gay,” I started, until she shouted, “No.”

“He needs to understand that his dad is in love with another man, and that’s ok. It’s nothing to get upset over. Had he known what the word meant, he would,” I continued until she tried to walk away.

I could only watch until she made it to the back door.

“Cindy?” I said.

“You aren’t telling my son any of that nonsense.”

She stopped at the door. Hand gripping the slider to leave, Cindy relented and stayed when we both saw through the glass. Our son had snuck out of his bedroom to get a snack from the kitchen. We watched as he crawled around, thinking he was alone, and with a toy gun in hand, Malcolm carried a brownie in his mouth back out of the room.

“He’s my son too. I want him to be smart, but being smart won’t stop kids from being pricks.”

“I said No.”

“Kids, they’ll pick on Malcolm for anything. Us not being married, me working as a fry cook, and yeah, because I love another guy. But our son should know not to fight over someone who laughs at our life. I want him to know he shouldn’t fight over punks who disagree with who we choose to be, who we choose to love. It should be ok.”

“It’s not Tom. I can stomach it. I can see the ways it, the ways he has made you better. But the world doesn’t care. What you are, what you think you are, will only hurt our boy. It’ll never be right.”

“It is to me. I didn’t move across the country to hide. I didn’t move here to be afraid of what feels right. I’m not insecure, not about this, and Malcolm shouldn’t be insecure for me,” I spoke while moving closer.

“You’re making a choice, a selfish choice, and our son will suffer for it,” Cindy warned as she turned away from the door to face me.

“What if Malcolm grows up and turns out gay? Are you going to love him any less?”

“He’s my son.”

“He’s our son, and I won’t hide from him.”

“Then we’ll leave,” she threatened.