Jason turned his head and stared at her.
She nodded her head and looked away, just as Jason had done a moment before.
“My son was … gay. We didn't call it that then. We called it homo or queer. I suppose I always knew in my heart he was … He was a dear little boy, so bright and sparky and full of beans. He loved dressing up, acting, playing the fool. He had so much energy and zest. He brightened the room. Whenever he appeared, people would smile.
“The first few years at school were fine. Little boys haven't learnt to be the critical creatures they become when they get to the late teen years. He was happy, did a lot of smiling and laughing and still had that wicked sense of humour and joie de vivre which made him so lovable. Of course, a mother loves her children anyway. And certainly I loved him.
“The trouble started when he was 14 or so. I think it was then that he realise he was … gay. The other boys realised it too. How cruel people are! They made his life a misery; bullying him; mocking him; cruelly, horribly taunting him. My little boy went from being funny, clever, kind … to a sullen, silent, angry young man.
“I should have intervened then. I should have taken him out of the school. I should have talked to the school. Instead I said to myself that he had to toughen up, that this was making a man out of him, and that he had to endure this because worse might happen in life.”
She looked away, her mouth hard, her eyes wet.
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