Sacred
A young man's love serves as a quiet act of rebellion.
I step into the house, your scent still clinging to my skin. Though I'm right on time, my father impatiently waits in the dining room. Taking my seat at the table across from him, I ask, "Where's Mom?" "She's gone up to bed," he replies. "Another migraine." His eyes narrow as he regards me. "You've been with that woman again, haven't you?" Instead of answering, I look down at my hands clasped in my lap. "Son, she's no goo...