Simon knew something was wrong the moment his father started yelling.
The house felt smaller with every word, walls tightening as his father's voice filled every corner. Anger, sharp and uncontrolled, crashed through the room as Simon stood frozen beside John, his hand hovering just inches away from his boyfriend's.
"You think this is who you're supposed to be?" his father shouted. "You think I raised you for this?"
John stayed quiet, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor—not weak, just careful. Simon felt the familiar burn in his chest, the one he'd lived with for years, swallowing words just to survive.
Then his father turned on John.
"You're not welcome here," he said coldly. "You stay away from my son."
He stepped between them, physically forcing John back, separating them like Simon was something to be taken and controlled.
Something inside Simon snapped.
"Stop," Simon said, his voice shaking but loud enough to be heard.
His father raised his hand—not to hit, but to command, to dominate. "You will end this. Tonight."
The sound of the slap cut through the room like glass breaking.
Simon's hand trembled as it fell back to his side. His father stared at him, stunned—not angry, just shocked, like he'd lost something he didn't know how to name.
"Don't ever touch my life like that again," Simon said. "Not my heart. Not my love."
He didn't wait for a response.
Simon took John's hand and walked out into the night, the door closing behind them with a finality that felt terrifying—and free.
The cold air burned Simon's lungs, but he welcomed it. They walked with no destination, just forward, hands locked together as if letting go would pull them back into that house.
They sat on a park bench beneath a flickering streetlight. Fear sat heavy between them, but it wasn't lonely.
"I'm scared," Simon admitted.
"Me too," John said. "But I'd rather be scared with you than alone pretending."
They stayed there until morning crept in slowly, pale and unsure. Simon watched the world wake up and realized it didn't end because he chose love.
They found borrowed walls—a cousin's couch, thin blankets, a place that didn't yell. Days turned into weeks. Simon found work at a café. John took whatever shifts he could. Life became small victories: shared meals, tired laughter, falling asleep knowing no one would tear them apart.
Simon still waited for his father's call.
When it finally came, they met in a park in daylight. His father looked older. Smaller.
"I don't understand you," his father said.
"You don't have to," Simon replied. "You just have to stop trying to erase me."
It wasn't forgiveness. But it was a beginning.
Time passed. Healing came unevenly. Some nights Simon woke shaking, haunted by echoes of raised voices and slammed doors. John learned how to hold him through it, how to remind him he was safe, that memories weren't power—they were proof he survived.
Life settled into something beautifully ordinary.
Groceries. Burned dinners. Quiet kisses. Arguments that ended in apologies instead of silence.
One afternoon, Simon's father showed up at the café. Ordered coffee. Touched Simon's hand by accident.
"Proud of you," his father said softly.
Simon nodded. That was enough.
Years later, Simon stood in a small garden, sunlight filtering through trees as he faced John. No crowd. No spectacle. Just love chosen openly.
"I choose you," Simon said. "Every version of this life."
John smiled through tears. "I never needed you to be anything but you."
Simon's father stood quietly at the back. Older. Trying.
"I didn't know how to love you," he said later. "But I see now you never stopped deserving it."
That night, Simon and John went home—their home. They locked the door, kicked off their shoes, and laughed in the kitchen like the world outside no longer mattered.
Because it didn't.
Simon learned that love doesn't come from permission.
Family isn't only blood.
And home isn't something you're given.
It's something you build by staying true.
And Simon stayed.
Still here.Simon's father came to the café one afternoon.
Simon froze behind the counter, apron still tied, hands shaking just slightly. His father stood awkwardly, eyes scanning the menu like it might explain everything.
"I'll have… whatever he's having," his father told the cashier, nodding toward Simon.
It was clumsy. Human. Trying.
When Simon handed him the coffee, their fingers brushed.
"Proud of you," his father said quietly. "For working. For… standing."
Simon nodded. That was all he could manage.
Pride didn't erase the past.
But it acknowledged the present.Life settled into something beautifully boring.
Grocery lists on the fridge. Shared jokes no one else understood. Arguments that ended in apologies instead of silence.
One night, curled up on the couch, John said casually, "You ever think about forever?"
Simon smiled. "I used to be scared of it."
"And now?"
"Now I think forever is just choosing each other again tomorrow."
John kissed him then—slow, sure, real.Simon wrote his father a letter he never mailed.
He wrote about fear. About shame. About the boy who thought love had rules. About the man who learned otherwise.
When he finished, he folded it carefully and tucked it away in a drawer.
Some truths didn't need delivery.
They already lived in him.Years later, Simon stood in the doorway of the apartment—their apartment—watching John laugh in the kitchen, sunlight catching in his hair.
This was home.
Not because it was perfect. Not because it was easy.
But because no one here asked him to disappear.
Simon had lost a version of family once.
But he found himself.
And he found love that stayed.
That was enough.No grand hall. No crowds. Just a small garden, soft light filtering through the trees, and a handful of people who had chosen them the way they had chosen each other.
Simon's father stood at the back.
Older now. Quieter. Not fixed—but present.
When Simon walked forward, his hands didn't shake.
He looked at John and saw every version of themselves layered together—the fear, the nights on benches, the borrowed walls, the ordinary mornings that saved them.
"I choose you," Simon said simply. "In the loud world and the quiet one. When it's easy. When it's not."
John smiled through tears. "I never needed you to be anything but you."
When it was over, when the papers were signed and the vows sealed with a kiss, Simon stepped away for a moment. He breathed in the air, steady and warm.
His father approached slowly.
"I didn't know how to love you," he said. "But I see now that you never stopped deserving it."
Simon nodded. "I know."
That was enough.
That night, Simon and John locked the door of their home, kicked off their shoes, and laughed in the kitchen like nothing else in the world mattered.
Because nothing else did.
Simon had learned something important:
Love doesn't come from permission.
Family doesn't come from blood alone.
And home isn't a place you're given—
It's a life you build by staying true.
And Simon stayed.
Still here.