Denton Little's Deathdate Read Free

resemblance between my stepmom and me that might convince people we’re actually related.
    I was convinced myself for a number of years, until my dad sat me down for a little talk when I was eight and told me that my biological mom died giving birth to me. It sorta blew my mind.
    â€œWait, so who’s my mom?”
    â€œShe died.”
    â€œYeah, no, but I mean, who’s the lady I know?”
    â€œOh, Raquel, right, she’s your stepmom. I got married to her when you were three.”
    â€œBut some other lady had me.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWere you married to that lady?”
    â€œCheryl, yes, I was.”
    â€œDid you love her?”
    â€œI did, yes.”
    â€œWas it sad when she died?”
    â€œIt was.”
    My actual mom’s deathdate fell on my birthdate, which is poetic in a way, but mainly just sad. Some days I feel guilty and responsible for my mom’s death. My dad did imply that my conception was “sort of an accident,” but he also said my mom was really excited that she would have a second child before she died. Apparently, she was nervous up until the moment I was born, though, worrying that shewould end up dying from complications before I came out or that her deathdate would also be mine.
    Once I knew the deal, I wanted to stop calling my stepmom Mom, but my dad said that wasn’t an option. And I’m glad he did. For all intents and purposes, Raquel is my mom, and I love her like one. In fact, anytime someone even utters the word
mom
, it’s her reddish-brown, chin-length hair, her jangly pendant necklaces, and the perpetually hopeful yet disapproving expression on her face that come to mind. At her most annoying moments, does it occur to me that my actual mother might have been more relaxed, more like Paolo’s mom? Sure. But at the end of the day, Raquel’s my mom. And I feel bad for her that she’s about to lose a son.
    â€œDentooon,” my stepmom calls from upstairs in her typical singsongy way.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDo you need help picking out what to wear?”
    â€œNope, I’m fine,” I half shout so she can hear me. “I’m just gonna wear my suit. Like we talked about.”
    â€œYou and Raquel talk about suits?” says my older brother, Felix, suddenly appearing, in a suit of his own.
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œUs, too. Sometimes I’ll give her a random call between classes just to talk about button variations. But then we end up talking for hours, I miss class, and my professors get mad at me.”
    I’m ninety-six percent sure he’s joking. “That’s lame. I feel like law school should be more supportive of your right to discuss menswear with your stepmom.”
    â€œI know, right?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHow are you doing?” He pulls me into a hug.
    â€œI’m all right.”
    Felix is nine years older than me, and I honestly don’t know him that well. I was eight when he went away to college, and he’s only home about five days a year. That’s not an exaggeration. Partly because there’s this ever-present, low-level friction between him and my stepmom (his stepmom, too), but also because he lives in the city and is always busy. I feel flattered that he’s here now. I assumed he would make it to my funeral, but I really wasn’t sure.
    He pulls himself back to look at me, almost fully replicating my stepmom’s pose from moments ago. I feel like it’s going to be a popular one today.
    â€œIt’s gonna be okay,” he says, staring into my eyes with an intensity I don’t think I’ve ever seen from him. It makes me uncomfortable. “You know that, right?”
    â€œI…guess so….”
    â€œWait, look at me.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œLife works in strange ways sometimes.”
    â€œRight.” He means well, but it’s irritating. “Kinda easy to say when you’re gonna live