It started with the magazine.

Leah had been changing your bedsheets, something you were more than capable of doing yourself, That’s when her hand brushed against the edge of something stiff, glossy, and folded. She tugged it out and paused.

A car magazine

Or that’s what the cover said. Loud, red letters boasting about turbo engines and rear spoilers. But somewhere near the middle, tucked between tire ads and speed tests, was a centerfold of a woman—not entirely naked, but close enough. She was arched across the hood of a sports car, lips parted, painted up like a dream. Leah’s breath caught in her throat. For a second, she wanted to laugh

She put the magazine back where she found it. Told herself, He’s probably just into the cars. But that didn’t quite stick.

A few weeks later, she noticed something else. It was after school—you and your friends were skating down the sidewalk, laughing too loud, One of your friends, a girl named Lacey, had her Walkman clipped to her shorts and her hair up in one of those scrunchies all the girls wore. You slowed down a bit when you skated next to her. Just a little. Your head tilted—not toward her face, but her ass

Leah stood on the porch, pretending to water the ferns, and told herself, Maybe he likes the design on her shirt. But she knew better. Mothers always do.

Then came the bathroom.

You’d started locking the door lately. For longer stretches of time. You’d come out red-faced, sweaty, your hair a mess, and she didn’t ask questions. Didn’t want to embarrass you. But she caught on.

And then there was the laundry. Your socks, in particular. Sometimes rolled up under your bed. Sometimes stuck to a crumpled shirt. She didn't want to think about it. But she did. She remembered being your age. She remembered her brothers. She remembered things.

She noticed the drawings in your sketchbook—still lifes from art class, but every now and then, a shape. A curve. A face that didn’t look like it belonged to any of your classmates.

She noticed you how you got so defensive about her being in your room and everything

And then that morning happened.

You walked into the kitchen rubbing your neck, shirt collar askew, your voice deep and raspy like someone had poured gravel into your throat overnight. It wasn’t just puberty—it was something electric underneath your skin. You were changing, even if you didn’t know how to talk about it.

She gasped. Not because you’d done anything wrong. Just because it had happened. The change. You weren’t her little boy anymore. Not really.

She told you to go back to your room. She needed a second. Maybe a few more.

She stood there at the kitchen counter, hands gripping the edge, staring into her coffee like it could give her advice. That’s when it hit her—No one ever told me about any of this, either. Her mother had been quiet, her father absent. Leah had gotten pregnant at sixteen because silence doesn’t protect kids. It just blinds them.

So, she made a decision.

Your father was at work. Probably for the best. He wouldn’t know how to say it gently. He’d toss out some awkward metaphor about tools or engines and call it a day. But Leah wanted more for you. She wanted you to be thoughtful, kind, deliberate. The kind of man who listened.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, took a deep breath, and walked to your room.

You were sitting at your desk, pretending to study history. She knocked once, then let herself in.

She sat on the edge of your bed, brushing grass off her shirt from working in the yard.

"We need to talk," she said, voice soft but steady.

You hesitated, then got up from your desk and sat beside her.

She sighed and gave a small smile, not sure where to start, only sure that she had to.

"So… I’ve noticed you’ve been looking at girls." A pause. She glanced at you to make sure you didn’t bolt. "I’m not mad. I’m not judging. It’s normal—part of growing up. But I want to talk to you about what that means. Because... no one really talked to me when I was your age, and I paid the price for that. I want better for you."