#WritcoStoryPrompt29
I ran all the way home from the ground. The older boys had beaten me up good but I still had the strength to run as far as I could from them. I knew my mother would be the next one to thrash me for getting beaten up, which was ironic, if you know what I mean. But I had no choice. I couldn't tell her the real reason the boys picked on me...

I burst through the front door, panting and sweating. The house was silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the old clock on the wall. I could hear my mother in the kitchen, humming to herself as she prepared dinner. I tried to slip past the kitchen unnoticed, but she had eyes like a hawk.

"Tommy, is that you?" she called out, her voice laced with suspicion. "Come here, let me take a look at you."

With a heavy sigh, I stepped into the kitchen, trying to hide my bruises and the tear in my shirt. Her eyes widened when she saw me, and she set down the knife she was using to chop vegetables.

"What happened to you?" she demanded, her voice a mix of anger and concern.

"I tripped and fell," I lied, hoping she would buy it. But my mother was no fool.

"Tripped and fell? Really?" She crossed her arms, her eyes boring into mine. "Tommy, tell me the truth."

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. I couldn't tell her the real reason. I couldn't tell her about the secret I had been carrying, the one that made me different, the one that made me a target.

The boys had found out. They had seen the way I looked at other boys, the way I didn't quite fit in with their rough-and-tumble games. They had called me names, pushed me around, told me I didn't belong. And when I tried to fight back, they had beaten me up, leaving me bruised and battered.

But how could I tell my mother that? How could I tell her that her son was...different? I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest.

"It was just a stupid fight," I muttered, looking down at my feet. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Her voice was sharp, her eyes narrowing. "Tommy, you come home beaten up, and you expect me to believe it's nothing?"

I didn't know what to say. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, and I blinked them back furiously. I couldn't let her see me cry. Not now.

"Go to your room," she said finally, her voice tight. "We'll talk about this later."

I nodded, grateful for the reprieve, and hurried to my room. I closed the door behind me and sank down on my bed, the tears finally spilling over. I buried my face in my pillow, wishing I could disappear.

The hours passed slowly, the silence in the house oppressive. I could hear my mother's footsteps in the hallway, her voice on the phone, but I stayed in my room, afraid to face her.

Eventually, there was a soft knock on my door. I sat up, wiping my eyes, and called out, "Come in."

My mother entered, her expression softer now, the anger gone. She sat down on the edge of my bed and took my hand in hers.

"Tommy," she said gently, "I know you're not telling me everything. And I want you to know that whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm your mother. I love you, no matter what."

Her words broke something inside me, and the tears came rushing back. I took a deep breath, my heart pounding, and finally, I told her the truth. I told her about the boys, about the names they called me, about the secret I had been hiding.

When I was done, I looked up at her, expecting to see disappointment or anger. But there was none. Instead, she pulled me into a hug, holding me tight.

"Tommy," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

For the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

© Pradip Hogade