That night I was lying in bed, battling insomnia like most nights. This time was different, though. It was a good and a bad kind of insomnia. I was used only to the bad kind. It was good because my mind circled around the time I had spent with Henry, and it was bad because my mind obsessed over the time I had spent with Henry. It was good because I couldn't shake the smug feeling when I thought about the conversation with my parents that followed Henry's visit. It was bad because I couldn't shake the anger and sense of betrayal when I thought about my parents' bigotry. But first things first.

Henry had stayed at my place for nearly three hours, which we spent talking about some heavy stuff. This was new territory for me. I had never let anyone see even a glimpse of the real me. But Henry made me open up a little bit.

"I'm here now, Cat. So, talk to me! What is going on with you?"

"It's really just some family trouble. My mum isn't the easiest person to live with, you know. It's just stupid stuff, but it seems to be piling up at the moment." I paused. "Trish has found a new friend to replace me, and Trish was really my only friend. It was my fault, too. I've been such a little shit towards her. So don't go blaming her!"

Henry gently squeezed my hand. "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. We all make mistakes. I'm sure you didn't do anything that an apology couldn't fix."

I laughed. "I don't know if you have noticed, but my social skills are below those of a mole. I hide whenever I am in public. I'm too much of a coward to walk up to her and say sorry. What if she doesn't want to know? What do I even say? How would I even...?"

"Shush, Cat. You are definitely no coward. I've seen you stand up for me against five nearly grown men. I have honestly and genuinely never seen a woman braver than that. I'm sure a little apology is nothing compared to that."

I mulled this over for a minute. I had never seen myself as brave. Wherever my mother dragged me to, sports club or music lessons or a party, she would always point out to everybody, as soon as we walked through the door, that her younger daughter was a little coward and so shy that she needed a little time to "thaw out", before she would speak. Every time she said these words, I waited for the earth to open up in front of me and swallow me whole. Unfortunately, the universe never decided that a small rescue mission for Katherine Shelley was in order. This left me with only one recourse: hide behind my mother's legs until my face had returned to its normal colour and my chest had loosened up enough for me to draw a proper breath again, effectively confirming my mother's description of me.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Henry asked gently.

"Nobody's ever called me brave. In fact, my family think I'm the world's biggest coward."

"Well, I can testify to the fact that nothing could be further from the truth. What you did for me took guts, a hell of a lot of guts. Nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever done anything that courageous for me. And I am ashamed to say that rather than thanking you profusely, I seem to remember that I yelled at you for it instead."

"You did it for all the right reasons, though, Henry. You were just scared for me." Then I remembered. "And for yourself. That's what you said, anyway. What did you mean by that?"

"Nothing." Henry averted his eyes.

"You know, Henry, I'm not big on trust and sharing my shit, I promise you. What I just did – telling you about some of the things that I am wrestling with at the moment – is a first for me and well out of my comfort zone. But I did it because I am starting to trust you and because you have to start somewhere, if you know what I mean. And despite the fact that I felt horribly out of my depth, it has left me feeling lighter. And that is thanks to you. So please don't shut me out now. I'm definitely no eminent authority in human relationships but I believe that I also can be a reasonably good friend. So: what did you mean by saying you were scared of yourself?"

Henry sighed. "Look, my childhood hasn't been all chocolate and flowers. There have been financial struggles and an absentee father who didn't make the race issue any easier for me - or for my mother. and then there's my stepfather or the stepfathers before him." He stopped. I took his hand and stroked his palm encouragingly. "My current stepfather has some anger management issues. He gets aggravated really quickly when he is drunk. Sometimes he loses control. Then things can get ugly." He withdrew his hand. "You don't need to have any of this darkness in your life. Sometimes talking is overrated, you know."

I grabbed his hand again. "Does he hit you and your mother?" I whispered. 

Henry nodded.

"When those high-school thugs hit me, they provide me a great cover story." He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. "Anyway, he is not the first stepfather of that kind – and not even the worst by far. I guess that's the type of man my mother is attracted to. Which makes me think: what was my real father like? Was he also violent? Is the rage that I sometimes feel inside me his legacy? Is that why my mother never talks about him? That's why I'm terrified of losing control. I know I'm a big guy. I also used to be a member of a boxing club. So yes, you were right. If I wanted to, I could probably take them. I could at least inflict enough damage so that they would then leave me alone at least. But at what price? I'd rather not find out."

"Jesus, Henry, I don't know what to say. Your story really humbles me. All of a sudden, I feel stupid for whining about my life. I might have my differences with my mother, but nobody attacks me in my own home – at least not physically. I am so ashamed right now."

Suddenly Henry pulled me in for a quick embrace, then released me again. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Feelings are feelings, Cat, and suffering is suffering. There are no degrees by which mental anguish is measured. I don't know what exactly is going on with you and your mother, but I know that, whatever it is, it is slowly killing you inside."

"Yeah, because I'm a wuss. You are dealing with all this bullshit, and you still have your act together. Maybe my mother is right, and there is actually something very wrong with me."

"If that is what your mother says to you, then with all due respect to your mother, there is something wrong with her and her expectations of you, and not with you. And don't worry; I don't really have my act together at all. That's just veneer."

"I still feel like such a drama queen."

"Like I said, Cat, your emotions are your own. They are your own truth. And your own truth is the only truth that matters. Your mother obviously makes you feel that you are somehow not good enough. But that is wrong on so many levels. First and foremost, it should be any mother's task to make their child feel loved and respected, safe and protected. And your mother doesn't seem to be doing a very good job there."

"You have no idea! But what about your mum? She has a partner who beats you. Don't you hate her for putting you through something like this time and time again?"

"It's complicated. My mother is the kindest person I know, but she lives in her own world. She's an artist. She always sees the good in everyone, and I admire her for this attitude. My stepfather always apologises very tearfully as soon as he's sobered up. He always promises that this was the last time, that he will change now for sure. She can't help it; she always forgives him. It's her nature. And while I admit that I would like for her to stand up for herself more, I wouldn't want her to change, either."

"But she doesn't stand up for you, either. How can you still love her so much and be so forgiving? I hate my mother. I really do. And she doesn't watch me being beaten up by her partner!"

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I gasped. I had never said those words to anyone before. I hate my mother.

Henry put an arm around my shoulders. "My mum is warm and fuzzy. Your mum, judging by what I've seen earlier and from what you told me about her, is cold and dismissive. Makes it easier for me to be easy on my mother. Whatever happens, I always know that she loves me with all her heart and that she hates herself enough already for putting me in such a situation. I don't want to contribute to this self-hatred." He squeezed me gently. "And I'm sure, in your case, hate might be a little too strong a word."

But that was where Henry was wrong! Even looking back, I have to say that, despite my acute craving for her love, hate might not have been a word strong enough to express what I felt towards my own mother. And even that emotion was about to take a turn for the worse.

* * * * *

As soon as Henry left, my mother called me to her. "Katherine Jane, would you please come here at once! We need to talk."

I sighed. When my mother added my middle name to my first name, it was never a good sign. Although I couldn't for the life of me fathom what I had done wrong this time.

When I walked into the living room, both my parents were sitting on the couch looking at me, eyebrows drawn together.

"Well?" That was my mother's standard opening for any conversation revolving around my actual or perceived transgressions and/or deficiencies.

"Well, what?" That was also my standard reply, although, in this case, I have to admit I was genuinely baffled.

"Your father and I are not at all comfortable with you bringing random boys home with you."

"Henry is not a random boy, mother."

"No, he isn't. Obviously. Judging from the way you were clinging to each other, it seems safe to say that this... this man is your boyfriend." 

What do they say about assumptions and making an ass out of you and me, mother? I did not say that specific piece of wisdom out loud, but holding it back cost me, I assure you.

Her criticism was palpable. Her whole posture was rigid. I could practically see the tension in her shoulders threatening to rip her throat apart. Picturing this made me smile a little.

"And you can wipe that moronic grin off your face right now, young lady. You are already putting us through enough heartache as it is. God only knows how you can be so smug. You've got no friends, no social life or social skills. You spend half of your days cramming empty calories into your mouth and then whining that you are too fat. And now this? I am slowly losing my patience with you, Katherine."

You can probably guess from the words alone that grinning during an argument didn't go over well with my mother at the best of times. But judging by the fact that her voice had risen to jackhammer decibel level (the volume was nothing new, actually pretty standard operating procedure in fact, but it usually took me at least 15 minutes longer to get her there; my mother prided herself on her poise and balance), it was pretty clear that my transgression must have been on par with murder. I was trying not to pay too much attention to my mother's insults. They were nothing new, either. Instead, I racked my brains what I might have done to unleash her wrath this time but came up empty.

"I thought you wanted me to bring friends home."

"Well, your father and I want you to stop seeing this boy."

My confusion grew. I looked at my father. He shrugged and said quietly, "Just do what your mother says, Katherine, and everything will be fine."

I couldn't believe my ears.

"Why?"

"This boy is no good for you, Katherine. And that's the end of the discussion," my mother said.

Now I was starting to lose control. That was also nothing new.

"I do what I want and I will see whoever I want. You have no right to tell me who I can be friends with. It's my life, damn it. Stay out of it, both of you!" I screamed.

"You will do as we say, Katherine. I don't want to see this boy anymore, I don't want to hear about him, I don't even want to hear you mention his name!"

"Give me one good reason why I should stop seeing him, one good reason!" I felt my blood pressure rising still.

"Open your eyes, Katherine! For once in your miserable life be smart and make the right decision! Just look at the guy, for God's sake!"

"Look at him? What the hell do you mean by that?"

"This boy is not one of us. His mother is some sort of artist, for crying out loud. And then there is his father."

"His father? What the hell are you talking about? His father left before he was born. Henry doesn't even know him."

"Jesus, Katherine, just look at the guy! Do I really need to spell it out for you?" She threw her hands in the air. "The guy is black."

I just stared at her. Surely, I had misunderstood what she had just said. For all my mother's faults, I had at least always believed that she practised what she preached. That even the hurtful things she said to me, the awful things she made me do, she did only because in her very limited worldview she genuinely believed that she was actually helping me. It might not have stopped me from hating her, from physically flinching when I came home from school and I saw her black Merc parked outside the house, which meant that she had come home from work early. But I had truly believed to this very second that there was some good in her. That she loved me in her very own twisted and warped way. Now I was not so sure anymore.

And my father, whom I adored, even though he never stood up for me or even for himself, in true daddy-fashion didn't say anything. I couldn't believe it. Surely, she had crossed a line now, too far for even my teddy bear of a father to ignore. But no. He just sat there and looked at his feet as if – at least – he was ashamed.

"I will see who I choose to see and there is nothing you can do about it!" I shrieked. "But I will comply with one thing: I will never talk about Henry in this house or mention his name again. I can promise you that. That would be disrespectful to him, you bigots."

I turned and fled the room, while my father shouted after me, "Katherine, it isn't what it sounds like. Please, can't we talk about it?"

I slammed my door as hard as I could and collapsed onto my bed, where I was still lying hours later, my thoughts racing.

Opening up to someone, talking about some of my innermost thoughts and feelings, had been exhilarating but also terrifying. Like an OCD sufferer, I now went through every word I had uttered and every thought I had left unsaid. Had I made a fool of myself?

The more I thought about it, the more agitated I became. Despite Henry's assurances, I felt foolish. What were my problems in the face of Henry's suffering? How embarrassing to have even said anything! And wasn't it my legal duty to report any abuse that I had any knowledge about? Or at the very least my moral duty? But what about Henry's wishes? He wasn't a little child anymore.

What about my parents? How could they have fooled me for so long? There were people from all walks of life and cultural backgrounds in my parents' circle of friends. I had always been sure that those friendships were genuine. Were they also only a façade, a façade to show the world the face of an educated white upper-middle-class tolerance whose political correctness existed only because it was good for business, maybe good for a feeling of moral superiority? Did they even know that deep down they were not the open-minded cosmopolitans they fancied themselves to be, but... But what? Bigots? Racists? Opportunists who only cared about getting ahead, being more successful than their neighbours?

There might have been some truth in that actually. Throughout my childhood, whenever I came home with an item of clothing which aroused my mother's disapproval, she would seize it like some overzealous bailiff on the grounds of "What would the neighbours think?" Clothes and hairstyles not only had to comply with current trends but were also supposed to be expensive without being "in-the-face" expensive, an attitude which had baffled my mind until now. Appearances.

I had shown them, though, this time, stood up for myself, for my friend. Or had I?

But what about Henry? After our talk I had decided to be more open, more honest, to speak my truth more often. But now? How could I tell him that my parents refused to accept him as my boyfriend simply on the basis of his racial background? The shame I felt when I thought about this was overwhelming. And the great irony was that he wasn't even my boyfriend. The universe always had a really amazing sense of humour when it came to me.

I was 17, nearly old enough to move out. I wanted out. But out of where? My family home? This city? This life?