My mother was in a frenzy. My grandma would be staying at my mom's place for the next few months, and since the only other child with a house was 8 months pregnant, it was decided that I would host Grandma's welcome home supper. Other than the switching of dishes, excessive cleaning, and potentially impeding relationship status reveal, I was happy to host. The grin on my face wasn't forced. I wasn't stressed. Not one bit... I was on my third cup of coffee because I enjoyed the bitter taste of pure caffeine.

     In the likely chance that Arty came up, and I had to reveal the truth behind my fake boyfriend, I was wearing my most mother pleasing outfit: a white blouse with straight black trousers. They were the plainest pieces of clothing I owed, a Christmas gift from a few years back. I had never felt the need to pull them on, but I would need any help I could get today. I had decided that I wouldn't lie about my situation anymore. I wouldn't do that to Oliver. And I wouldn't do that to myself. I was hopeful that the outfit would lessen the extent of my mother's undeniable disappointment.

     "Yasmine, you look great!" That was probably the most genuine compliment my mother had ever offered me. She had clearly missed the colossal bags under my eyes. If not for my excitement of greeting my grandmother, I might have rolled my eyes.

     On cue, grandma stepped out behind mom. Wobbling hand on her cane the only clue that she might be ill, she pulled me forward by the front of my shirt. With an oomph, I wrapped my arms around her round torso, and laughed as her short brown curls tickled the bottom of my chin.

     "It's nice to see you, grams." I squeezed her a little tighter.

     She noticed the bags under my eyes immediately, gently swiping her thumbs across them. "You better be taking care of yourself," she chirped.

     "I am."

     She cocked a brow of disbelief.

     "I'm doing better now," I promised, taking both of their coats to the closet. "I started seeing a therapist, and he's honestly been great." Johnny truly was working wonders. He wasn't a miracle worker in the sense that he knew how to solve all my problems. Working everything out was a slow progress but having a non-bias person to walk me through it all was such a relief. I was exhausted after most of our sessions, but the baby steps were noticeable.

     Grams barely batted a lash at the statement, smiling as though satisfied. But my mother's steps faltered. I had expected to find anger on her features, as I had yet to tell her about the therapist, but instead brown eyes flashed with concern and a hint of sadness. It almost caught me off guard.

     "No need to worry," I felt the need to reassure her. "It's pretty common actually, a lot more people ought to give it a chance. It really is helping."

      Her lips twitched into the smallest smile. Before she could say anything else, I scrambled towards the kitchen. Johnny was forcing me out of my comfort zone, guiding me into expressing my true feelings, but I wasn't quite at the point of discussing it all with my mother. "I'll get the bean dip, while you two get settled." And so, the master games of eluding, began.

     Grams was adamant on not talking about her diagnosis, diving right into her plans for the next months at home. She was excited to finally visit my clinic, and I couldn't deny the request to follow me around for a day. She was in for a surprise, but who was I to judge a bucket list wish. I'd just have to rearrange a few appointments. Hopefully avoid any anal glands, maggots or pyometra surgeries. She was equally excited to meet Arty... I had known that Arty would come up eventually, but I didn't expect it so soon. The woman cut right to the chase. The rest of the family wasn't even here yet. Sean and Elias would be coming after Elias' mathematical Olympiad, and Dina and Chris were finishing up with an ultrasound. But thinking it over, I concluded that this was a conversation that would benefit from less people. Baby steps. Disappoint only a few people at a time. Sean would be devastated; ready to welcome Oliver to the family with open arms.

      Before I could say anything about it, my mom started gushing about Arty. An absolute sweetheart. A charming romantic. A wise man who could cook and was great with kids. What more could I have asked for? On and on she listed Oliver's, or rather Arty's best qualities. Captivated by the elaborate fictional character of my creation, it took many beats for her to acknowledge the grimace on my face.

     "What's with the look on your face?" Her shoulders squared, as if preparing herself for disappointment. My grimace only intensified.

     "Yasmine." The way she uttered my name, told me everything I needed to know. Disappointment would be an understatement. "Tell me you didn't."

     "Didn't what?" Grams prodded cluelessly.

     Mom ignored her; death glare set my way. "Did you break up with him?"

     Closing my eyes, I shook my head meekly.

     "He broke up with you?" I'm surprised she didn't go with that one first, still her tone sucked. Her tone implied that I did something to deserve it.

     I heaved a heavy sigh and shook my head again. I opened my eyes to meet pure confusion, rightfully-so. There really was no good way to approach this. So, better to just get on with it. I straightened myself in the love seat and took three careful breaths.

     "There is no Arty, mom."

     "What do you mean? I've meant him plenty of—"

     "You met Oliver." I opened the dam, mentally prepared to be thrown underwater. If I died today, Dina knew to forgo the tombstone and get me a memorial tree. "Oliver's a friend of Lada's fiancé. He's a great guy who did me a solid by accepting to play the part of my fake boyfriend."

      Painful silence crammed my living room. Grams was rightfully confused, but my mother? I couldn't read her expression. Blank features met mine for torturous long moments. Tic toc. The ticking of the clock's needle had begun to fall in sync with the twitch in mom's right eye. I cringed. The twitch was a bad sign. It was the same twitch that had followed my drunken valedictorian speech. The same twitch when she had to pick me up from a school trip after I missed the bus to play with someone's dog.

     "You. Did. What?" She uttered every word slowly, instilling fear with each syllable.

     "I named a fake boyfriend after my childhood teddy bear." Honesty was the best policy. "I got the idea at the baby shower, which you rightfully questioned me about."

     Mom was speechless. No words. Just blinking. It was grams who asked the obvious looming question.

     "Oh dear." She took a sip of her water. "Why on earth would you do that?"

     Despite the tension and crazed looks, a wry chuckle slipped from my lips. Why would I do that? A good question indeed. The question had a lot of baggage. But Johnny had been encouraging me to be honest; honest with myself and my peers. Sometimes the truth held a lot of weight that needed to be shared. It was my mother and grandmother: women that were meant to love me unconditionally. I'd spent my life trying to please them. The real me alone should have been enough to please them. I loved them with my whole heart, but it was high time that I learned to be true to myself and let them witness it.

     "I was feeling attacked, and I panicked," I started. "The first thing I'm asked at any family event is in regard to my relationship status. Am I dating yet? Where's my boyfriend? When am I bringing someone home? And every time I give my genuine answer, I'm met with pity or judgement. People kept giving my advice. Criticizing me and saying things like I had to give someone a chance, eventually... I was tired of that." I met my mom's eyes then, overcome with a sudden burst of bravery. "I was tired of feeling like a disappointment. Tired of feeling like my worth rested in my relationship status. I know it wasn't your intention to make me feel that way, but I felt it nonetheless... I know what I did was wrong. Creating a fake boyfriend was stupid, especially considering how much you all grew to love him, but I just wanted to get everyone off my back."

     "You could have responded to those feelings by actually dating. There would have been no need for a fake boyfriend, if you went out and procured yourself a real one." Of course, she'd say that: typical Zaina response. She was missing the whole point.

     "I did date. I've been dating. My friends have been competing to see who could be the first to find me a partner. I've been on date after date, these past weeks."

     "Well, that's great. But why—"

     "No, mom," I interrupted. "It's not great. I agreed to satisfy you, to satisfy my friends. To even satisfy myself, I guess, in the sense of my desire to meet everyone's expectations. And though I've met great people, I have never felt less like myself than I have these past months. It was all pretend. It felt so unnatural because I wasn't being true to myself. I was uncomfortable, constantly stressed. And I was torn because deep down I knew that I didn't want any of it, but I also wanted to go through with it, just to get it over with. So that I could feel normal. But I am normal. Even if my feelings don't reflect that of the majority. I've accepted that it's okay that I don't want to meet these expectations; that I can't meet these expectations without compromising myself."

     Mom was confused. "You don't want what? To date?"

     I hesitated, taking a moment to assess their reactions. I saw only puzzlement on their features, and so I nodded.

     "But then how are you going to meet someone?" In no time, puzzlement twisted into fear and anger, as I had expected. But I had gotten this far. I wasn't turning back, now.

     "I won't," I answered honestly, strangely calm. "And that's the point. I don't want a relationship. I made a friend this week who helped me put to word what I've been feeling for a long time. I'm aromantic and asexual: aroace. I have no desire for sex, nor a romantic relationship. And I know you might not understand it, but I can't change this part of me."

     The change in my mother was swift. Sneaking a glance at grams, she tensed, as if more concerned by the way I was embarrassing her in front of her mother.

     "Yasmine." She was red the face, now. "Your grandmother didn't come here to hear your ridiculous proclamation of giving up on love."

      I heard the secret message in her words, your grandmother is dying, give her the satisfaction of thinking her grandchild is going to live a normal life. But she didn't understand that I was choosing the most normal life for my circumstances. I was so tired of pretending to be someone else in front of the woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally.

     "I know it's hard," grandma finally chimed in. "But I agree that giving up isn't the answer. The right man will come along, eventually. Sometimes it takes a few bad matches to find the perfect one, the one that lights you up inside. I met your grandfather in my late twenties, and only after the worst date of my life."

     "Exactly." Mom stuck her chin up, happy to have her mother side with her. "Something doesn't always have to come out of a date. It's okay if it doesn't work out but I think you'll find that it meets some of your needs, nonetheless."

     There was a double meaning to needs, and the faint blush on her cheeks made it pretty clear. But I knew for damn sure that the woman who willingly went looking for my dildos, wasn't embarrassed about sex talk. It was sex talk in front of the plump woman sat beside her that made her scramble.

     "I have no needs of the such."

     Grams snorted. "No need to be embarrassed about that. I'd have thought your mother raised you differently than that. It is completely natural."

     Mom went rigid; nothing she could say would help her case... How familiar.

     "I don't disagree. It is absolutely natural." I nodded. I could not begin to count the hours spent talking about sex with my friends. It was not a subject that shamed me. "But I feel no need to find a person to meet those needs. There is nothing appealing to me about it."

     Proving their shared DNA, they cocked their perfectly trimmed brows in the same skeptical fashion.

     "I've tried. I've put myself in many uncomfortable positions and I couldn't even get myself to enjoy the hand holding," I started unashamedly, because there was nothing to be ashamed of. I didn't like physical affection, so what? "Remember when Eli told you about the time, I ran away from a guy named Dick? Dick's not a person. Dick's a penis. A penis that was inches away from my face when I ran away. I was so overwhelmed with the idea that I was doing something that deep down I knew I didn't want, that I ran away. I literally scrambled for my clothes and ran five blocks, barefoot in the rain."

     Stunned silence. No words but emotions flashed across my mom's dark eyes: fear and embarrassment. I resisted the urge to pull the hair out of my head when I realized where the fear stemmed. Despite my earlier declaration, in their narrow minds, rejecting penises meant 1 thing: embracing vaginas. I was mildly confused by her fear, though. Mom wasn't homophobic. She genuinely liked my friends, and her work bestie was a proud lesbian.

     "I tried girls too—" I started.

     "Yasmine!" There was only fury now as she shot a side glance at grams. Ah. She wouldn't care if I was a lesbian. My grandmother simply couldn't hear a word of it. Her embarrassment was almost enough to rile me up. But I didn't get to make a fuss for Grams dismissed mom's protest with a wave of her cane.

     "I don't care if she's into women." She revealed casually. "It's the 21st century. I just want you to be happy, Yasmine."

     I offered a half smile at that. "While that's nice and all, vaginas don't do it for me either. And friendly reminder not to associate vaginas with lesbian, because neither a woman nor man are defined by their genitals."

     As the silence grew, so did the color of my mother's face. She was as red as gram's lipstick: cherry red. I couldn't read where grandma stood, unable to read anything but confusion on her pale face.

     "If my happiness is truly what you both value, you'll accept that I am not interested in a relationship with anyone, no matter what's in their pants."

     "But—" mom spluttered aimlessly. "But you can't just..." She couldn't even get herself to say it.

     "Why can't I?" I challenged.

     "You can't believe you'd be happy with never finding love?" As if only now realising how serious I was being, grams was as invested as my mother.

      "I don't just believe. I know that I don't need romantical love to be happy. And notice how I mentioned romance, because my life is already filled with so much love in terms of my career, my family, and my friends."

     "Now that's just—"

     "Grams," I interjected. "I love you with my whole heart. And I so badly want to make you proud, but I will not do that by pretending to be someone I'm not. I've done that for far too long now, and it pained me."

     Grandma eased herself back into her seat: a good sign. It meant she was done arguing. And though I didn't see understanding or regret on her features, I was happy to also not find anger. She was passive. Thinking. Trying to understand.

     Even mom softened, though that didn't mean she was done disagreeing. "We don't want you to be anyone other than yourself, but—"

     I didn't let her finish. Was she really going to say that with utmost sincerity when she'd tried to change me my whole life?

      "If that's so, accept that there's no negotiating this. Whether you like it or not, this is who I am. Just as you wouldn't ask Tanya or Amy to give men a shot, don't ask me to try to feel something that I know I can't. I love you mom. And I know that everything you do is with what you think is in my best interest in mind. But the days of your opinions ruling my decisions are over."

       "What?" She spluttered again. I had never seen her at such a loss for words. She was sually put together, quick with her responses. Today, she was struggling to form a proper sentence. "What do you mean?"

     "I mean I like dressing in ridiculous color pallets and sporting cheesy puns on my chest. I like the ridiculous marketing videos I put on Facebook. I like the marigold flowers better than the roses at my clinic. I like the dish set that I picked out; the dish set that I switch with the plain one you told me to buy, every time you visit." I rose from my seat, moving the landscape picture frame and lamp that the two had moved earlier. "And I like the way my furniture is placed. I don't care that the lamp isn't positioned for optimal lighting. I don't care that the frame isn't aligned with the window. I like how it looks! And I like the way I'm living now. I already feel purposeful. There's no missing key to my happiness. If you can't be supportive of this, then for the sake of our relationships I need you both to drop the subject."

      As if to fully absorb my words, they were quiet, once again blinking in rhythm with the ticking of the clock.

     "Of course, we'd support you," mom said softly, her voice a sad whisper. "I didn't quite understand your bright idea of organizing a Pet Wash, but I bought you the cleaning supplies and helped you set up the garage, didn't I?"

     It was the most backhanded response she could have offered, but I smiled nonetheless, because I knew she was really going to try. She was admitting to not understanding but vowing to try. The Pet Wash was in fact a brilliant idea for 4thgraded Yasmine. I'd made a proud 176$.

     "I admire your courage dear," grandma added. "And I trust you to know what makes you happy... Now does anything need to be done for supper? If the bean dip is anything to go by, I'm sure you don't need help."

      Per my usual, to avoid the disaster of my mother's cooking, supper was already done. A quick reheat when everyone got here, and all would be ready. That didn't stop them from helping with the set up. Following texts of the others impeding arrivals, mom and grams took over. Almost as if the conversation was forgotten, I sat at the kitchen table, watching them go, wisely staying out of the way. Grams took charge of the meat pies, placing them in the oven and then moving onto the utensils. Mom had targeted the onion soup. I watched her warm it on the stove and winced as she instinctively reached for the salt. Bringing a spoonful to her lips to taste, I saw when she noticed my eyes on her. Discretely, with a hesitant twitch of hand, she returned the salt. I nearly fell off my chair. She turned around nonchalantly, acting as though nothing had happened.

     "Great job with the soup," she told me.

     "Thank you. I used Oliver's recipe."

     "Oliver... Right. Arty is Oliver." Suddenly a little less nonchalant, she moved towards the cupboards. It was almost comical how much she was trying. But I was grateful.

     Grabbing a stack of plates, she headed for the table. She managed to place one down before freezing. Frowning at the white plate, she looked tormented. Seemingly gathering her courage, she spun my way with a smile that almost looked painful. If didn't know her, I'd think she was having cramps.

      She looked at me, sighed and then asked, "Where do you keep your regular plates?"

     Wordlessly, brows permanently fixed in my hairline, I lead the way to the hallway closet. It was a small storage space, that even my mother never bothered to open, precisely the reason I used it as my hiding spot. I wrenched the door open and dragged the crumbling box out of hiding.

     Mom looked appalled. "You hide these every time I come over?"

     I nodded. "Remember when you first met Oliver and it took forever to answer the door? We were running around, switching the sets."

     Mom groaned. She actually groaned and bent to pick up a plate and inspect it. "And you genuinely like the family of moose?"

     "I love them deerly. Quite popular with my American friends too, I like to play on the typical Canadian trope."

     With great reluctance and minor exasperation, she heaved the box onto her hips and started setting it on the table.

      There was still a lot of work to put in. And hopefully one day she'd come to accept my interests and traits without great reluctance or discomfort. But she was trying. She was showing a genuine desire to be supportive. And I knew that this was the beginning of a whole new, healthier relationship with my mother. This was another prominent first baby step.