ACCEPTED, WANTED, DESIRED
ALM 92, August 2026
SHORT STORIES
I emerged from my bedroom for dinner, reluctantly, aloofly, joining with family members at the kitchen table, as though under an edict. Perhaps it was an edict, of sorts, a tribal ritual that I no longer participated in willingly. I had been doing this for too long. I had disconnected. I had been doing this for too long. I felt obliged to attend. I was 17 now, one month from high school graduation, the oldest of five children, in one of those large, rollicking Catholic households so prevalent at the time. As oldest child, I carried a heavy burden, the residue of many years of trial-and-error child rearing, with me as a kind of experimental dummy. Every stage of my development and everything I did was new to them.
My siblings were all buzzing around, buzzing happily, it seemed, obliviously, as I once had, contented with their lives, their surroundings, their stations in life, grabbing their plates and their places at the table, digging in eagerly. Wanting to be there. Talking was all over the map, flitting from corner to corner, topic to topic, like a fast-paced ping pong match. Punching each other, jostling for position, making silly declarations and putdowns. I was the only one there who was somber and restrained. I’d like to say dignified, but it wasn’t being dignified, it was just being a sullen jerk. I looked at my mother’s face. My mother had a sweet, serene, almost saintly face, compassionate and hopeful. She was resolutely hopeful. She spent her days—and nights—striving to ensure that all of us children were happy and fulfilled. She was acutely aware of any suffering, the slightest emotional distress, among her substantial brood. I understood that I was making her sad with my boorish demeanor, but seemed incapable of stopping myself.
“Why the long face?” my mother said, holding a serving spoon primed to ladle out mash potatoes, or green beans, or some other tasty dish she had cooked up. I shrugged. I smiled. There was no joy in my smile. It was an uptight smile, the kind of smile that perversely conveyed a condition of acute angst. From the far side of the table, the other side of the aisle, so to speak, my father chimed in.
“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, your eminence,” my father said, with a ceremonial nod. My father had no aversion whatsoever displaying annoyance with me. He seemed to relish doing so, polishing his pointed injunctions like a piece of fine mahogany. Everyone fell silent. He swiveled in his chair to address me directly. His eyes seemed to signify a readiness for verbal combat.
“Daddy,” my mother said first. “Let him relax. Just be happy he’s still here at his age.”
“I’m not going to let him relax,” my father said. “Stop coddling him. What he needs is some good old-fashioned self-discipline. He’s lackadaisical. He’s lazy. You know what the teachers at school always say—he doesn’t apply himself.”
My father’s words bit, bit hard, especially with my siblings gathered around. I wanted them to think well of me, still, despite it all. I wanted them to regard me as a role model, someone to emulate. My father commanded the head of the table, monitoring the assemblage like the generalissimo of a banana republic. In my adult years I reached a kind of détente with him, enjoyed conversing with him, reached a certain level of love with him, but we were at loggerheads constantly now. It was a good night if we didn’t end up in a shouting match. I knew I was radiating jagged vibes of adolescent gloom. He didn’t seem to comprehend what I was going through, what it was like being me. He was oblivious. He was obtuse. He didn’t understand why I couldn’t be eternally bright and cheerful, part of the team.
“Dig in, Honey,” my mother said to me.
“I will, Mom,” I said. “I’ll get something in a minute.” I paused, poignantly, dramatically, perhaps. “I’m not really hungry tonight.”
“Not hungry!” my father thundered, as if this were the last straw. In our household, not being hungry was tantamount to a felony offense. “Your mother slaved all afternoon making this fabulous dinner and you’re not going to eat?”
My mother touched my father on the wrist and shook her head, warningly. This battle had been fought between them before.
“That’s OK, Stevie,” my mother said—I had beseeched her to stop calling me Stevie for years now. “Just eat as much as you like.” My father blew a loud exhalation of breath through flared nostrils. He stared out over everybody’s heads, imperiously.
I sat silently for a few moments, hands resting on the tabletop, rocking back and forth. I glanced around the table. For some deep-seated psychological reason, then, I felt compelled to make the following announcement—almost a formal proclamation—trumpets blaring. I hadn’t planned to announce this, it just sort of bubbled up from my subconscious and out my mouth. Normally, I didn’t tell my family much of anything. I kept my private life a mystery. Perhaps I sensed that what I was saying now would mark me as significant, boost my esteem in the eyes of my family members, boost my own self-esteem. Perhaps—deep down—I wanted to impress my father more than anyone else.
“I’m going out tonight,” I said. This was so out of character that everyone stopped eating to gawk at me. Somebody’s fork fell and clanked on the table.
“Oh!” my mother said. “Where are you going?” She held the serving spoon mid-air, eyes cocked, awaiting my response. They all awaited my response.
I shrugged. I regretted saying anything now. I wished I could retreat back into mystery. It was too late to go back. The spotlight was on me, hot and bright.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m having dinner with a girl.”
“Oh!” my mother said again. Her voice was urgent, importunate, far more than was necessitated by my announcement. I should have known that would be her reaction. “Who is she?”
Her voice pushed me back hard into myself. It was my father, then, who served as the voice of reason and restraint. It was a surprising juxtaposition, having him as my ally. He leaned forward in his chair. He seemed engaged in a fashion he wasn’t before, approachable, almost collegial.
“Relax, Mother,” my father said. He had a nice smile when he to, very youthful and charming. I could see him as a charmer with women, a regular Lothario if he wasn't a strict Catholic husband and family man. He seemed proud of me, inordinately proud, as if finally, here was his boy, and this was a moment he had been anticipating for many years. He nodded once, stabbing a piece of cauliflower with his fork, as if to put a stamp of approval on the proceedings. He seemed in a jolly mood, now.
“Let’s eat, everybody!” he said. “Food’s getting cold!” He waved his hand like an orchestra conductor. My mother couldn’t rest there, however. She moved into high gear now, a helicopter parent cranked up to mach 5. This was another side of her, a complementary side, her overprotectiveness amplified, that she was unable to refrain from questioning and inspecting every aspect of my personal life. She could be unstoppable. I braced for a barrage of probing inquiries.
“Is she your girlfriend?” my mother said. I shrugged again.
“I just met her,” I said. “I met her at the school dance.” My voice turned monotone, flat as a prairie desert.
“What does she look like?” my mother said. “What color is her hair?”
“Mom!” I said. “Come on. It’s brunette, kind of.”
“Is she pretty?” my mother said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Yeah. I think so. Yes.”
“Is she Catholic?” my mother said. Oh boy, I should have seen that one coming. Her mind had leaped already to a potential marriage, and I could see her thinking it would be so much easier if the girl shared our religious faith. If not, she could convert. The youngish priest at our parish church was open-minded about such matters.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I said. “I guess so. She goes to St. Monica’s.” St. Monica’s was the sister girl’s school to my school, St. Aloysius, a short walk away.
“She probably is, then,” my mother said. This piece of information seemed to put a closing spin on the exchange. She resumed her officiating duties. Everyone else resumed eating. Conversations picked back up, though burnished with the aura of my bombshell disclosure.
I sat silently, pondering my future, immediate and long-term. Neither seemed secure. I wouldn’t say this out loud—I could barely admit it even to myself—but tonight felt like it was make or break for me. If I fizzled out tonight, there may never be another opportunity for happiness again. The remainder of my wretched existence would be spent in a malaise of stunted desire and deprivation. Sure, my family liked me. My high school friends Pat and Mike and Tim liked me (I guess) , but they couldn’t like me. On the whole, they actually provided negative feedback to my self-image, with their pranks and jibes and stupid nicknames. To an insecure, immature young fellow like myself, that one word, italicized, meant the difference between happiness and melancholy, joy and dejection, serenity and agitation. That was an eternal truth in life. A senior in an all-boy’s Catholic high school, my experience with members of the opposite sex had been sparse and sporadic. My few tenuous relationships had all concluded in a kind of listless torpor. The girl I was picking up tonight I believed could be the one. Of course, I had believed that many, many times before.
Steven McBrearty grew up in one of those large, rollicking Catholic families so prevalent in the time period. On any given day, there might be games of pitch and catch or tackle football in the back bedroom. Steven moved to Austin to attend the University of Texas and remains living in Austin, still. He has published three collections of short stories and more than 40 stories and humorous essays overall.
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