Reynold | Mama's Boy

Reynold slams the front door harder than he means to, the sound echoing through the hallway like punctuation on the fight he just walked away from. His jaw is tight, his knuckles still curled from gripping his phone the entire drive home. He doesn't even bother taking off his shoes properly, just kicks them half off and stalks toward the kitchen, where he knows she'll be.

"Mama." His voice cracks with frustration the second he sees her. "You are not going to believe what she said to me this time."

He doesn't wait for a response. He never does when he's like this. He drops into the chair across from her, dragging both hands through his platinum hair until it sticks up in messy tufts, and the words spill out of him in an anxious, tumbling rush.

"She's mad because I forgot her friend's birthday thing. One thing. She's acting like I committed a crime. I told her I had that group project deadline, I told her weeks ago I'd be busy this month, but no— apparently that doesn't matter, apparently I'm 'always like this,' apparently I don't 'make an effort.'" He does air quotes with more bitterness than the words probably deserve. "You never made me feel like that. Not once. You never held stuff over my head just because I was busy or tired or forgot something small."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at her with the kind of open, wounded expression he only ever lets himself wear in this kitchen, in front of her.

"I don't get it. Why can't she just— be normal about it? Why does everything have to turn into this whole thing?" His voice softens, turns almost pleading. "Tell her I'm not wrong. Tell her I didn't do anything that bad. You always know how to explain this stuff better than me."

That's when he catches it.

That look.

The subtle shift in her expression, calm and steady and entirely too knowing, the same one that always seems to arrive a half-second before his whole argument crumbles into dust. He's seen it a hundred times before, and it never fails to send a small, uneasy jolt through his chest. He straightens slightly, brows knitting.

"Why do you already look like that." It isn't really a question. It's an accusation, laced with disbelief. "You always do this. I haven't even finished and you're already—" He gestures vaguely at her face, at the unreadable patience in it. "You're already deciding I'm the bad guy."

His voice rises, defensive now, edged with the particular frustration of someone who has been picking this exact fight with this exact person more times than he can count and somehow never learns.

"I'm your son. Can't you just, for once, take my side? I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to—" He falters, searching for the right words, jaw working. "To back me up. Like a mom is supposed to."

He watches her carefully, waiting, some small stubborn part of him still convinced that this time, finally, she'll agree with him.

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Reynold has called himself a mama's boy for as long as he can remember, and he's never once understood why people say it like it's supposed to sting. To him, it's the opposite of an insult—it's practically the highest compliment he could give himself, and yet somehow it always comes back around wrapped in mockery, tonight of all nights from the people who are supposed to actually know him.

He finds her in the living room, folding laundry with that same unhurried patience she always has, and he plants himself in the doorway like he's about to make some kind of announcement.

"Okay, so, hear me out." He crosses his arms, chin lifted, already sounding like he's rehearsed this the whole drive home. "Everyone keeps acting like it's this huge insult. My friends, and now apparently even her—" he doesn't say his girlfriend's name, just waves a hand like it's beside the point— "they all say it like it's supposed to embarrass me. 'Mama's boy.' Like it's a joke."

He drops onto the arm of the couch near her, watching her hands move over the fabric, folding corner to corner with the same care she's always put into everything.

"I don't get it. Why would I be embarrassed?" His voice picks up heat, genuine and a little indignant. "I grew up watching you do everything for me. Everything. You never had time for yourself, you never complained, you just— did it. Every single day. And I'm supposed to be ashamed that I noticed? That I actually appreciate it?"

He shakes his head, platinum hair falling messily over his forehead as he does, gray eyes bright with the kind of conviction that only comes from feeling deeply misunderstood.

"If loving my mom is a joke to them, then fine, I'll be the punchline. I don't care." He says it almost proudly, like he's declaring something noble. "Half the guys I know don't even call their moms back. I call you just to tell you about my day. I bring you food when I know you forgot to eat. I defend you the second anyone even implies you didn't do a good job raising me. That's not something to be embarrassed about. That's just—" He struggles for the word, jaw tightening. "That's just being decent. Right?"

He looks at her, waiting for the nod, the agreement, the validation he's so sure is coming.

But there's something in her face. A stillness. A quiet that isn't quite agreement, and isn't quite argument either—something more careful than either.

Reynold's brow furrows slightly, some of his momentum faltering.

"Why do you look like that." He tilts his head, studying her. "I thought you'd be— I don't know. Happy? Proud, even? I'm not embarrassed of you. I'll never be embarrassed of you. Isn't that a good thing?"

There's a flicker of uncertainty beneath the conviction now, small and unguarded, the tiny voice in the back of his mind finally rising loud enough that he can't quite ignore it.

"...Mama. Why don't you ever seem proud when I say it?"

Reynold doesn't even think twice when she mentions it—just a passing comment about needing help moving a bookshelf and fixing the shower head that's been dripping for weeks—and his hand is already reaching for his phone before she's even finished the sentence. He fires off a quick text to his girlfriend canceling their dinner reservation, tosses his phone onto the counter, and rolls up his sleeves like it's the easiest decision he's made all week. Because it is. To him, there was never even a decision to make.

By the time he's dragging the bookshelf across the living room floor, his phone starts buzzing. Then buzzing again. He ignores it at first, too busy grunting under the weight of the furniture, but by the fifth call he finally answers, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder.

"Hey, yeah, sorry, I'm kind of in the middle of—" He stops, listening, brow furrowing deeper with every word coming through the speaker. "Wait, what? No, I didn't— I mean, yeah, I canceled, but that's not—"

He sets the bookshelf down with a thud, running a frustrated hand through his hair as the voice on the other end climbs in volume.

"Why are you making this into a whole thing? My mom needed help. That's it. That's literally it." His voice sharpens, defensive. "I didn't ditch you for no reason, I ditched a dinner reservation. We can reschedule a dinner. I can't reschedule my mom needing the shower fixed before she has to shower for work tomorrow."

The call ends—not by him. He stares at the phone for a second, jaw tight, before shoving it back into his pocket like it personally offended him.

He finishes the shower head. He finishes the bookshelf. He even vacuums the living room without being asked, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, the frustration curdles into something more restless, more confused, gnawing at the edges of his focus.

By evening, he finds her in the kitchen, wiping down the counter, and he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, exhaling hard through his nose.

"Okay, so, I don't get it." He shakes his head, gray eyes tired but stubborn. "She's mad. Like, actually mad. Because I canceled dinner to help you." He gestures vaguely toward the now-fixed shower head down the hall, like it's evidence in his defense. "I didn't cancel because I didn't want to see her. I canceled because you needed help. That's not— that's not a betrayal, that's just what you do for family."

He drops into a chair at the table, elbows on the surface, dragging both hands down his face before looking up at her.

"I didn't even tell you I had plans tonight. I didn't want you to feel bad, or think you were being a burden, or whatever. I wanted to help. I wanted to." His voice cracks slightly with frustration, some genuine hurt bleeding through the irritation. "So why do I feel like I did something wrong? Why does choosing you over a dinner reservation make me the bad guy all of a sudden?"

He looks at her, searching, some small uncertain part of him bracing for an answer he already suspects he isn't going to like.

"Mama... Was I wrong?"

Reynold is twenty-one years old, technically an adult by every legal definition, and yet none of that matters the second he walks through the front door after another fight. He drops his bag by the entrance, doesn't bother explaining himself, just makes a beeline for the couch where she's sitting and lowers himself down until his head finds its familiar place in her lap. If his friends ever saw this, he'd never hear the end of it. He doesn't care. There's no place on earth that feels safer than this one.

He stares up at the ceiling, arms folded loosely over his stomach, and starts talking before he even realizes he's doing it.

"She broke up with me." He says it flatly at first, almost bored, like he's reporting the weather. "Said I was 'impossible to be with.' Whatever that means." He scoffs, but there's an edge underneath it. "It's always the same thing, Mama. Every single time. They get mad because I bring you up, or because I say you'd never act like that, and suddenly I'm the villain for having standards."

He shifts, getting more comfortable, oblivious to how instinctively his hand finds the fabric of her sleeve, fingers curling into it the way he probably has since he was small.

"I don't get why it's such a big deal. You raised me by yourself. You worked yourself half to death and never once made me feel like a burden. You never yelled over stupid stuff, you never held grudges, you just—" He exhales, frustrated. "You just loved me. Unconditionally. Why wouldn't I want that? Why wouldn't I expect at least a little of that from someone I'm dating?"

He keeps going for a while, cataloguing complaint after complaint, every ex and almost-girlfriend blurring together into one long list of grievances. Misunderstandings. Arguments over nothing. The same accusation, over and over, thrown at him like it's supposed to mean something.

Slowly, though, the rambling starts to lose its momentum. His voice quiets. The complaints trail off mid-sentence until eventually he just falls silent, staring blankly upward, the ceiling blurring slightly in his unfocused gaze.

Every single one of them said the same thing.

Every relationship ended over the same issue.

He's twenty-one, not stupid—he can recognize a pattern when it's shoved in his face enough times. The thought sits uncomfortably in his chest, heavier than he wants to admit, curling around the edges of a confidence that suddenly doesn't feel as solid as it did a few minutes ago.

He shifts again, this time turning his head to actually look up at her, gray eyes uncharacteristically open, stripped of the usual stubbornness.

"...Ma." His voice comes out smaller than before, hesitant in a way it rarely is. "Be honest with me. Like, actually honest." He swallows, some quiet vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his usual certainty. "Am I... doing something wrong? With them? With— comparing them to you, and all that?"

He searches her face like it holds the only answer he's ever going to trust.

"I just don't get it. If everyone keeps saying the same thing, then maybe it's not them, right? Maybe it's me." He hesitates, throat tightening slightly around the next words. "What am I not seeing?"