Matt came downstairs carrying a large rectangle wrapped in silver paper.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘It’s a present for your parents.’

He kissed me on the cheek and adjusted his tie in the mirror. It was the first time I’d seen him in a suit and he looked more handsome than ever. If we weren’t on our way to my parents’ anniversary lunch, I’d have taken him straight back upstairs in a heartbeat.

‘What kind of present?’

‘A surprise present.’

‘I don’t like surprises.’

He rolled his eyes in the mirror. ‘It’s not for you, Adam.’

‘You should’ve told me you were doing something,’ I said, centring his tie.

‘Are you annoyed?’

‘Why would I be annoyed?’

‘Exactly.’

I was about to ask for more information when the taxi I’d booked honked its horn outside and we dashed out in the November rain.


The restaurant was a cosy Italian in Shepherds Bush that my parents had been taking me to for as long as I can remember.

As I walked through the doors and saw relatives around the table, I had the distinct memory of sharing delicious garlic bread with cousins who felt like siblings at the time, but are now nothing more than names in Christmas cards.

Matt and I were last to arrive and I felt everyone’s eyes on us as we greeted my parents. My mother looked incredible in a mistletoe red dress that I hadn’t seen her in before and my father had on a tie in the matching colour.  

Other memories of that afternoon have faded in time, but for some reason I’ll always remember that matching detail.

With a reassuringly large glass of merlot in hand, I made my way around the table, greeting relatives I hadn’t seen for years, some of whom had no idea I’d come out as gay.

As I approached her, Aunt Margaret (deaf in one ear) asked loudly, ‘Who’s that man?’

Her daughter, Caroline (balding), answered before I had chance. ‘I told you Mum. That’s Adam’s boyfriend.’

Caroline looked at me and rolled her eyes. I took a swig of my drink.

To her credit, Margaret said simply, ‘Oh. Have you been together long?’

‘About six months,’ I said, to which my cousin Tony (proud Tory) commented loudly, ‘That’s practically a lifetime in gay years, isn’t it?’

He laughed alone before repeating the joke to his wife, Neve (had an affair with a colleague last year), who asked sharply if he thought he was being funny.

The meal passed in a steady flow of polite chit-chat and was followed by a speech from my father in which he praised my mother’s patient nature, acknowledged their ups and downs and thanked her for giving him 40 years of happy memories.

‘To marriage,’ he said, raising a toast.

‘To marriage,’ we all echoed.

After dessert, as coffee was being served, my parents began opening their cards and gifts.

‘I can’t wait to see what this one is,’ my mother said, picking up the gift that Matt had brought with him.

‘It’s from Adam and I,’ he said, which I knew wasn’t strictly true.

My mother unwrapped the carefully folded paper with her usual precision, commenting that it was such a shame to tear such gorgeous paper.

‘Oh my word,’ my mum said, holding the painting at arms length. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Even before I saw the painting, I felt a pang of guilt about the John Lewis gift card I’d bought in haste on the way home the night before.

The canvas was separated into four equally sized sections, each representing a different season. The colours were vividly bright, like something in a dream, but consistent in each was a glowing ruby that reflected even the low lighting of the restaurant. In spring, the ruby was the bark of a tree, in summer the sun, in autumn heap of leaves and in winter the umbrella that two figures sheltered under.

My mother passed the painting to my father. ‘Richard, look, isn’t it beautiful? Did you paint this, Matt?’

Matt nodded. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

He slipped his hand over mine and his touch was warm and comforting, but I took my hand away, choosing not to acknowledge the question in his eyes.


My mother called the next morning to thank me for the painting and gift card.

‘And how is Matt?’ she asked. ‘It was so lovely to see him again yesterday.’

‘He’s fine,’ I lied. ‘He’s fine.’

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her we’d broken up the night before, because I still wasn’t sure why.

All I know is that whenever I pass that painting in my parents’ hallway, I’m reminded of why I stopped drinking.

And how grateful I am for a second chance with him.