"Husband!" Mort shouts ferociously. "I'm her husband!" He whips out his pistols and points them directly at Seward. Fortunately, he doesn't pull the triggers, but his eyes are shooting laser beams at him.

Even in his bathrobe, the Sheriff is far more intimidating. Hulking muscles peek through the loose fabric hanging against his chest, but Mort is too blinded by rage to notice. Seward uses his seasoned police officer reflexes to grab his own gun from the kitchen table. "All right, everybody just chill," he says calmly, still holding the popcorn in his other hand.

"Put your guns down!" I scold Mort and pull on his arms.

"It's okay, John," Mom says to the Sheriff. She rests her hand on his wrist gently, lowering his weapon as well. "He won't hurt anyone. He's just..." she pauses to search for the right word, "reacting." She picks up her fuzzy shawl from the back of a chair and puts it over her skimpy nightgown. "Well, this is certainly a surprise."

"I should say so," Mort mutters, glaring at Seward.

Sad nostalgia and wonder fills my mother's eyes. "It's been a long time."

After studying Mort and me, Seward speaks up to break the uncomfortable silence. "I'll just, uh, give you three some time to talk this out. Excuse me." He disappears behind the wall separating the living room from the kitchen. His popcorn goes with him.

I fold my arms and bounce my foot, waiting for my parents to initiate a conversation. They just keep staring at each other, exchanging bittersweet apologies without words. Growing impatient, I decide to speed things up. "So, Mom... you never told me that my dad is a va--"

"Shh!" Mom pushes her finger against my lips. "John doesn't know," she hisses.

"But you did!" I try to say with as much anger as I can using a whisper. "Why didn't you tell me? My entire life--the xeroderma pigmentosum diagnosis--was a lie?"

"It was the only way to protect you." She squeezes her fists. "That was the only explanation I could use to help you live a normal life."

"Normal life?! What part of my life has been normal?!"

"The part where neither of us ended up in a mental institution. What was I supposed to do? Tell everyone that my son couldn't go to school during the day with all of the other children because he's a vam..." she stops herself and leans in closer. "The V-word?"

"Did you know about the aliens too?"

"I knew enough." She shrugs her shoulders. "The Lunatori took you away--didn't they, Mort?"

"Yes," he says, looking at the floor.

"They were never very accepting of our relationship, were they?"

"I didn't care," he replies. "I would have lived a life of exile if it meant that I could spend it with you."

"But that's just it, Mort. We both know that it wouldn't last forever. The laws of Lunatori made it impossible. I'd eventually grow old and decrepit... and you'd still lose me in the end."

"That made no difference to me," Mort says, looking her straight in the eye. "I would have been with you until your last breath."

"I didn't want that for you," she replies. "You've felt that pain too many times."

"Perhaps, you're right. I... I was never very good at facing the reality of things. It's silly now that I think about it. I always hoped that, one day, I would return so we could be together again. But I was foolish to expect that you'd wait for me."

My mother swallows the sting of his words and steps back as if her own guilt slapped her cheek. Sighing, she tries to soothe his aching heart through reason. "Mort, look at the lines on my face. Do you see this?" she asks, grabbing a handful of her curls. "If I didn't dye this, it would be gray."

"You're still as beautiful as the day I met you."

"And you haven't aged a day--that's the problem." Mom throws her hands up. "Look, Mort. I'm happy. I've moved on. Here I am, a woman at my age, starting her own business. I paid my dues. I raised our son. And I never resented you for leaving. For your own sake as well as mine, I had to let go of the past. You... both of you," she says, pointing at each of us, "need to let go."

"Y-yes," Mort says, holding his chest. "I just need a moment. I don't feel well." He backs away, disappearing into the dark hallway.

Mom turns her attention on me. "So, this is what all of the commotion's been about? Did he steal the Mayor's car?"

"He didn't steal it. The car belongs to him," I reply bitterly.

"It doesn't anymore. I sold it."

"That's another secret you've kept from me too, right? And what is this about?" I ask, gesturing to the living room. "How long have you and the Sheriff been...?"

My mother shuffles her feet nervously. "A while."

"Why didn't you tell me?" From the corner of my eye, I see the Sheriff reappear in the archway leading to the living room.

"Because I knew you wouldn't react well," she blurts out.

"I'm an adult. Not a child," I reply indignantly.

"But you've always been very protective of me. Sometimes too protective. Do you remember when you were eighteen, and I went on a date with Larry Scampone?"

"Yeah," I say, rolling my eyes. "Why you went on a date with that dirt bag, I'll never know."

"He was a dirt bag, I'll give you that. And when you saw him get too handsy with me in the car, you snuck out after I went to bed. You slashed his tires and spent the night in jail. John helped me get you out of that mess without Larry pressing any charges."

"Is that how your little romance was kindled?"

Annoyed, Mom says, "You're just like your father."

Somehow offended, I ask, "What does that mean?"

"I mean," she says, softening her tone, "that you both are very passionate. And I wasn't just afraid about you being overly protective of me."

"Can you stop being so cryptic? I'm tired of all these damn riddles."

"Ahem." The Sheriff clears his throat, and I know that is his way of telling me to change my tone when addressing my mother. I know better than to disregard the warning, but my boiling irritation makes it very difficult to maintain composure.

"Just hold on," my mother says, folding her arms. "I'm not trying to beat around the bush; I'm trying to help you understand."

"Okay."

"Do you remember the sixth grade dance? Bobby Finster said that your father was a deadbeat loser who abandoned you. You broke his nose. Are you starting to get the picture?"

"No, not really," I huff.

"I think you do," she retorts. "Even though you never met your dad, he was your hero. How could I bring another father figure into your life knowing that no one would ever fill that void. Not for you. I didn't want to force you to accept anything less than the glowing image you had created in your mind about your real dad."

"I can't believe this," I say, brushing my fingers through my hair.

The Sheriff walks into the kitchen and puts his arm around my mother. "Quinnie, I think we may owe Drake a little more credit. We're all adults here. He deserves to know the truth."

"You're right," she says, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Gross.

"So, no more secrets, then?"

"No more secrets. I'm sorry, Drakey."

"Good."

"Well, in that case," the Sheriff sighs, "what's the deal with the Mayor's car?"

"Don't ask. There's no use in trying to solve any problems at 10:37 p.m. Let's just say that I might need your help with something. Later."

"Good. Then let's get started on the show." He directs her to the living room but looks back at me. "Drake, why don't you go check on your dad?"

I simply nod and leave them to carry on with their binge and cuddle night. In the hallway, my bedroom light shines through the bottom of my door. I push it open to find Mort lying facedown on my pillow.

"You okay?" I ask, closing the door behind me.

"It hurts," he groans. His voice is muffled. He finally lifts his head, revealing tear-soaked bedding beneath him. "Why am I cursed to spend this eternity alone?"

https://youtu.be/g9VWhh8r5Vs

Music Credit: "Careless Whisper" by George Michael