Archive of Our Own

May 2024

Mother’s Day is always hectic with the Pincus family. Their insistence on an annual get together to mark the occasion was sweet the first few times, but Ben is starting to find them tedious.

It’s a big day. They’re a family of many women: three daughters who each had a daughter — until Ben transitioned. Yet another way he’s quietly ruined things, and illogical as it seems, he can’t help but think it’s why certain people in his family have never liked him. Keeping his distance as soon as he was old enough to worked just fine: making the polite appearance at family gatherings a few times a year was sufficient.

Until the accident. Aside from his mum, Ben hasn’t seen any of his blood family in well over a year.

(It never felt like anything was missing, not with the camp fam by his side.)

Mother’s day was the perfect excuse for another get-together — and Ben using his injury as the reason for his mother not to invite him has long since lost credibility.

Several phone calls and six weeks later, Yaz is driving him, herself and Sammy to Hyde Park, Chicago, and Ben can’t stop his hands from shaking in his lap.

Part of him doesn’t want to go. He’s tired, it’s already a bad speech day, and it’ll undoubtedly be worse knowing the camp fam won’t be there to help. They almost always know what he means, and wait patiently even when it takes him what feels like hours to say one thing. He loves his biological family, really, but they tend to be... chatty. He doesn’t know how he’ll get a word in edgeways. Not to mention his family seeing him with a wheelchair for the first time since the accident.

“You nervous?” Yaz asks.

Ben laughs without a smile. “How could you tell?”

“‘Cos I know you. And you’ve been tapping your knees and twisting your hands all the way here.”

“And you didn’t sing when the radio played Our Last Summer,” Sammy adds from the driver’s seat.

“‘Kay fine. ’M nervous,” he says. It’s easier to talk when they aren’t looking at him. It doesn’t make any sense but it’s true.

“We’ll pick you up at four,” says Sammy, sounding for all the world like a mother. “And we’ll come earlier if you need. Just give us a call.”

“I’ll leave my phone on noisy,” says Yaz.

“Guys... It’s fine,” Ben says with a soft laugh. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

But his voice wavers, and he buries it in a cough. If Yaz and Sammy notice, they don’t mention it.

The van crawls to a stop. Sammy clears her throat. “We’re here.”

Ben lets Yaz undo the straps that belt his wheelchair to the floor of the van, and she gives him a soft kiss on the forehead when she’s done.

Ben smiles. “Love you too.”

Yaz merely smiles back, and stands to the side, her eyes quietly tracking Ben’s movements as he wheels down the ramp, waiting for the first indication that he needs help. Ben knows better than to find it overbearing; it comes from the most genuine, sincere place of love. Where her and Sammy’s instinct is to take care of him. Not only that, but they consciously quiet that urge to give him the dignity he deserves. Ben could drown in that amount of love.

Sammy steps forward and raps sharply on the door: three even knocks.

No one comes, and Ben holds his breath.

“They’re probably getting a ramp, or something,” Sammy reasons, squeezing Ben’s shoulder.

Ben mm’s in response.

The door flings open, making all three flinch.

“Ben!” Comes a joyful cry.

Ben opens his screwed-shut eyes to see a smiling face he knows so well, and his heart jumps.

“Mom!” He propels forward, and she comes forward with a clack-clack of square kitten heels. Hesitation flickers in her eyes for a barely-noticeable second, but she wraps him in a loving hug. Ben squeezes back, and then feels his arm spasm and hurriedly pulls away.

“Oh, my darling boy...” a sob hitches in Abigail’s throat. “It’s been far too long.”

“We’re lucky you’re finally well enough to travel, huh, Benny boy?” Yaz says, clapping his other shoulder. Ben appreciates her sort-of lying on his behalf.

“Well, I could’ve come down there myself— but nevermind that!” Abigail staples on a smile. “It’s so good to see you, my dear boy.”

Ben can feel his throat constricting with an all-too familiar band of tears, so he clears his throat, and tries a full sentence. “It... good to... see you.”

Not his best effort, but the meaning is conveyed at least. Abigail gives a smile that seems twenty percent a grimace.

“He’s having a bad speech day,” clarifies Sammy. “Please don’t expect too much of him.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Sammy,” Abigail chirps. “You know, I’m glad he has you and all his friends.” Her eyebrows shoot up, a thought occuring. “Oh— how are the others?”

“They— they’re good,” says Ben. “In Cal... California with Simone. Yaz and S— Sammy are going out with— with N... Nadia.”

“If you can, make sure you’re always keeping an eye on him.” Sammy steps forward, handing her a stapled leaflet of Ben’s care instructions. Abigail balks, but buries it in a nod.

“Oh— she really doesn’t need—” Ben says.

“Shush, you,” Sammy says, equal parts affectionate and stern. She turns back to Abigail. “Look after him, because this one,” she gives Ben a mock-stern look, “Ain’t the best at asking for help himself. If he has a seizure or a heart episode, call us, ‘kay?”

“Oh— okay.” Abigail looks a little disturbed.

“You’ll be fine,” Yaz reassures her with a smile. “You’re his mom; you can take care of him probably better than we can, anyway.”

I doubt that, Ben thinks — then is suddenly struck with the thought of why his mind immediately compared the stifled memories of his mother caring for him after top surgery, to the hours the camp fam spent looking after him once he got back to them. They feel different, and he can’t put his finger on why.

“Thank you, girls,” Abigail says.

“We’ll pick you up at four, okay?” Sammy says to Ben.

“Can’t I have a little bit longer with my son?”

Sammy shrugs. “That’s up to Ben. Depends if he has the energy for it.”

“You’re sitting in a wheelchair all day, how could you not have the energy to talk with your own family?” Abigail says, her voice hushed — but Yaz and Sammy still hear it, and their heads whip around. Yaz’s eyebrows are raised in a silent question — do we intervene? — and Ben shakes his head.

“See you later,” Yaz calls, getting into the van.

“Bye.” Ben waves them all the way down the road, and then they’re gone.

Ben suddenly feels very exposed, like an organ is missing. He shakes off the feeling, and pushes himself to the front door.

“Ah.” Abigail looks at the very noticeable step.

Fuck, Ben says in his head.

“Maybe you should just leave it outside. Or in the garage. You can walk a bit, right?”

“It might get stolen,” says Ben. “It cost... th— thousands. And I m... might need it.”

“You can literally go right in and sit on the sofa,” she says, a mutter under her breath.

“Nn— need the headrest and posture.”

Abigail sighs huffily, but concedes. “Fine. I’ll get some of the boys to help.”

The boys — meaning Ben’s older cousins in law, Jonathan and Gabriel — both give him a respectful nod. Ben waves with a tight-lipped smile, and before he has the chance to speak, Abigail says, “Can you lift him over the door please?”

Ben’s skin crawls. It feels deeply wrong having someone else touch his wheelchair — let alone carry it. The camp fam touching his wheelchair is an act of intimacy and deep-rooted trust between them; having it almost... manhandled fills him with a sense of inescapable danger and disgust. He shuts his eyes and imagines it’s Kenji, Darius, Sammy... any of the camp fam would be better than this.

But the camp fam would never jolt him around this much. They wouldn’t be this careless with such a fragile and sacred extension of his body. They definitely wouldn’t grab him so hard it leaves an imprint on his body long after Jonathan lets go.

They set him down roughly, and Ben is more thankful than ever for his seatbelt, or he’s certain he would’ve lurched forward and hurt his wound. It still twinges after all this time.

At first, his family don’t really notice him. People are rushing around, cooking food, and supervising the flurry of children’s footsteps hurtling around the house.

Then, their heads turn, and Ben suddenly feels like a celebrity, rolling down the red carpet. He’s instantly self-conscious. He was never a fan of being on camera. Or being perceived, really. Being visibly disabled makes him invisible or too visible right when he wants it least.

“Hello... Benjamin.” There’s a note of hesitation — discomfort — that instantly makes Ben’s skin crawl, as his aunt Miriam bends down to hug him, and kiss both his cheeks.

“Hey, auntie. How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good... how are you?” She frowns pityingly, patting his hand. Ben resists the urge to roll his eyes. Yep. Of course. The pity looks. After about a year, now, of being visibly disabled, he still isn’t used to it. Maybe he never will be.

“I’m... good.” Ben cracks a smile.

Miriam tuts softly, with a gentle “oh” sound that is sympathetic in a way that sets Ben on edge.

But he doesn’t have time to address it — because two pairs of footsteps suddenly skid into the hallway.

“Uncle Ben!”

“Sarah, Jacob, hey you two!” Ben’s face splits into a real smile. “How are my favourite niece and nephew?”

“We’re good!”

They skid to a halt, looking puzzlingly up at Ben. “Can we get a hug?” Jacob asks, his eyes wide.

“Oh— I can’t bend down, but if you’re careful, you can sit on my lap, okay?”

They cheer, all previous grievances forgotten as Ashley hoists them onto his lap, where they throw their little arms around his neck. Ben hugs them tight, focusing all his energy making sure his arms don’t spasm and hurt them.

“Why are you in a chair?” Sarah asks once she lets go.

“Sweetie, that’s rude to ask,” Ashley says, but Ben cuts in.

“No, it’s okay. She’s a kid,” Ben says. “She’s just curious.”

“It might be a bit... scary for her,” interjects Miriam, her voice hushed.

“No it isn’t!” Sarah says indignantly.

“You don’t know what I’m about to say, s... silly!” Ben teases, and Sarah giggles. “I... got v— v— very badly hurt. And the doctors m— managed to make me mostly better, but I’m still... a bit hurt. It’s called a... a brain injury.”

“Oh.” Sarah frowns. “Sorry.”

“Don’t... feel sorry. It’s okay to be disabled. My life isn’t sad,” Ben says, ignoring how Miriam’s face shifts, and Ashley and Jonathan exchange glances, as he says that. Like they don’t quite believe him.

“Is that why you stammer a bit?” Asks Jacob. “Because you’re dis-a-bled,” he says, sounding it out. (Why has a seven year old never heard of being disabled before? Ben wonders for a second.)

“Yeah. Basically. That’s one of the symptoms.”

“What’s a symptom?” Asks Sarah.

“Okay, that’s enough questions,” Jonathan says, lifting a squirming Jacob off Ben’s lap. “Don’t tire out your uncle.”

“Oh, they’re—” fine, Ben was going to say, but Jacob and Sarah are already hurtling off into another room.

As the other adults resume the conversation (like he isn’t even there) Ben takes a moment to wonder about Jacob and Sarah. How many other children haven’t heard of the simple fact of life of being disabled? How many of them will grow up uneducated and innocently ableist? It really doesn’t take much to explain. If children can understand death and pain and other far scarier things, they can cope with someone telling them, “I’m just like you but I use a wheelchair because my body needs some extra help getting around. My friend has one arm and she uses a prosthetic arm to help her do things. Another friend has pain in her ankle so she uses a cane to help her walk.”

Ben could say it all himself, if he had an uninterrupted two minutes and ideally no one staring at him. But who would listen? The moment he sits in his wheelchair, it’s like his voice stops really mattering.

“Oh— hey, sweetheart!” Rachel calls, as another pair of footsteps descends the stairs.

“Go away.”

Becca. Ben internally groans. His other niece has lately entered the “teenager-y” phase of hating everything and everyone, making her disdain clear with swooping rolls of her eyes. He dreads to think how she’ll treat him now.

Her head whips towards him, and she pauses mid step. Her eyes are wide open. “What happened to you?”

“Becca!” Miriam gasps. “Don’t be so rude.”

The blatant truth is becoming more obvious now, and Ben turns to his mum, tugging her sleeve. “You didn’t tell any of them I— I— I was dis... disabled?”

Abigail’s lips press into a thin line Ben can’t decipher, but before she can reply, Becca mumbles a quiet, “Sorry uncle Ben.”

“It’s okay.” He forces his mouth to smile. “I was in— nn— a— a— an acc— ss— ident.”

His face goes bright red. Why, of all people, does his stammer have to act up in front of her?

She gives a disinterested nod. “Is that why your speech is different?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Then, she takes her phone and wanders off. Ben feels surprisingly okay about the whole interaction. She was definitely nicer than a lot of people, to his surprise. Maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge teenagers. He was one once, even if it was hardly typical teenagehood.

“How are you, Ben?” Ashley says, turning around as if suddenly remembering he exists.

“I’m... good, thanks.”

“Ah. Glad to hear it.” Her eyebrows are raised, clearly expecting more, but Ben doesn’t know if he can stomach pushing out another sentence. He’s tired enough already, and he just wants to go back to Texas and lie down.

“How’s your girlfriend?” Asks Gabriel. “You do still have a girlfriend, right?”

“She’s... good. We’re not... together an... nymore though.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gabriel says, as all four adults give him a look of sympathy Ben can’t stand. They probably think it’s because of his accident — and that was a small part of why they broke up — but it grates on him, and he says firmly:

“I have a boyfriend.”

“You do?” Says Becca, suddenly reappearing in the doorframe. Her eyes flicker up and down him. “I thought you liked girls.”

“Both. I— I like both.” Ben pulls out his phone, flicking through his gallery until he finds a picture of him and Kenji (which doesn’t take long, considering how many photos Kenji takes of them on a daily basis) and shows her. “That’s him.”

“Woah, that’s your boyfriend?” Becca exclaims, gaping. “He’s sooo hot. Shame he’s gay.”

“He— he’s bi, actually.” And that’s kind of rude to say, Ben adds in his head, but he knows better than to start another conflict right now.

“Oh. ‘Kay.” Becca shrugs, and wanders off again, but Ashley grabs her arm, and says, “Where are you running off to?”

It takes Ben a second to realise what that means.

“Picture time!” Trills Abigail.

Fuck.

Ben holds in a groan. He hates being in photos. The obligatory family photo is something to be endured for ten prolonged minutes of shuffling and waiting for Miriam to set up the camera. And now with his wheelchair, he has no idea how they’ll pose it. (Brooklynn is good at that sort of thing. She always makes Ben look good.)

Abigail ushers everyone into the living room, where Ben sees his grandparents. Shoshana sits on a rocking chair, and Jan with a transport wheelchair, the kind Ben used in hospital for a while.

Ben hangs back, waiting for everyone to fit through the narrow doorframe, before propelling himself through, coming to a halt beside his grandparents — who he can at least trust to be quieter than everyone else.

Jan taps him on the arm with a nod. “It’s nice to have someone else sitting on a chair with me. Makes me feel like I’m not the only lemon here.”

The comment lands right on his heart. A barrage of he’s old, he doesn’t mean it hits him at once — but it still hurts. It stings like acid, he wants to cry, and he wishes the camp fam were there to hug him and make it all okay.

Abigail and Miriam get to work, directing everyone into rows. (In the last photo, Ben remembers being at the back, with the tallest people.) Now, he’s shoved near the end of the front row, jammed in between Ashley and Becca, who’s shuffling around on the end, twisting bracelets on her forearm.

“Oh— Sarah, you go on Ben’s lap,” Miriam says, and before Ben can object, a squirming kid is thrust onto his legs.

He flinches slightly, having someone just... dumped on him. The camp fam sit on his lap, sure, but that’s because he loves them. He trusts them. It should be Kenji propping his arms on the handles, not his cousin in law Jonathan. It should be Darius leaning on his armrests, not his cousin Ashley. It should be Yaz sitting on his lap, not Sarah — as much as he loves his niece. It feels wrong to be this touched when it’s not them. He would verbalise those boundaries, but he knows that’s more trouble than it’s worth. He can endure this.

“Becca, squish up a little closer to Ben,” Miriam commands, taking people by the shoulders and adjusting them, stepping back and forth from where the camera is until she’s satisfied. Ben prepares for the touches, bracing himself, tensing his muscles, and thinks of anything but this.

Go to your happy place! (The thought sounds like Sammy.) He thinks of the camp fam.

Abigail trots over to the camera. “Okay, it’ll take the photo in ten seconds once I press this button. Everyone hold it!”

Everyone quietens and settles down. Ben takes deep breaths, willing himself to relax, praying a muscle spasm doesn’t warrant a redo of the whole picture.

“Okay... smile!”

Ben stretches a grin across his face, the camera flashes — and then it’s over. People relax, and begin moving to leave, but Miriam shrieks, “No one leaves until we know it’s a good take!”

She heads for the camera, checks, and smiles. “Aww, that’s lovely.”

“Are we free to go?” Becca asks.

“Yes, Becca, you’re ‘free to go—’ goodness me, anyone would think you don’t want to be here!” Miriam says with a laugh Ben can only interpret as mocking. Half the adults in the room are laughing too, and Ben starts to understand why Becca is always so grumpy at these gatherings. He gets it. From the few family gatherings he was dragged to, he was either keeping his mouth shut, or wandering off to climb on the roof.

Of course, only one of those is still possible for him now.

He propels forward to his mum, who’s showing Daniel and Eva the photo. “M... may I see?” And signs ‘please’ before forgetting none of them know ASL, and pushes out a quiet, “Please?”

What he sees makes his stomach twist. The entire camera is tilted slightly upwards so no one’s feet are visible, and his wheelchair, family members draped in various positions in front of the frame, is barely visible. You’d have to know he was a wheelchair user to look for it.

The camp fam would never leave his wheelchair out of their pictures, he thinks. They’d want to show off every sticker and patch, every scratch on the custom turquoise frame, because it’s part of him. You can’t remove the disability from Ben. It’s shaped how he sees the world. It’s changed him, for better and worse.

“What do you think?”

I hate it. “It— it’s...” and he struggles on the G sound, before he manages, “Nice.”

Abigail subtly dismisses Eva and Daniel with a wave of her hand, bends down to Ben’s cheek and whispers, “I know you have a, um... speech problem, or something.” Impediment, Ben mentally corrects. Ironically, that word is damn-near impossible for him to say. “But could you maybe try to speak a little... clearer? I’m just worried the kids might not understand you, and, you know, Jan and Shoshana are getting old.”

Ben mumbles a mm-hm, hoping that’ll be the end of that. But he can’t just ‘speak a little clearer’ no matter how much he tries. If he could, believe him, he would. It feels like torture to know what he wants to say but being simply unable to push that word out of his mouth. Sometimes his brain just can’t string together a sentence, and he relies on the AAC app on his phone, or the little amounts of sign language his brain can manage to remember. He knows how he best communicates, and the camp fam all adapt to it.

“Try, okay?” Abigail says, patting his shoulder with a bright smile.

Ben checks the clock on the wall. 11:28. He got here at eleven.

Four hours and thirty two minutes until Yaz and Sammy pick me up. He repeats it like a mantra as he retreats into a corner, opens his phone, and sends a message.

Ben: All going well?

He doesn’t expect them to reply — they’re with their own families after all — but the silence in his notifications doesn’t make him feel any better.

He plays Subway Surfers on his phone for the next twenty minutes, keeping to himself in the corner of the room. The kids don’t ask to play with him, Becca doesn’t ask him about his boyfriend any more, and he wonders if their parents told them to keep their distance — an instruction dressed in pretty assurances that Ben is fragile and special and different — or if they’re simply that repulsed by him. Either way, he doesn’t want to know.

What he really dreads — and what he knows is coming closer, no matter how long he stares at the clock, willing it to slow down — is lunch. A huge table full of everyone (already not germ safe, considering he’d bet none of them mask or test regularly) where they’re all going to be staring at him. No way of wandering off and vanishing into a corner where they can forget he exists. And of course, talking.

He tries his usual onslaught of calm-down remedies: playing more Subway Surfers, listening to the Undertale soundtrack, texting the camp fam — but none really do anything to help.

And sure enough, Miriam calls from the kitchen, “Lunchtime!” and Ben groans internally. Best to get it over with.

Kenji has a habit of making difficult things into a game: that’s one of the many, many things Ben adores about him. Physiotherapy never felt like work when Kenji was cheering about a “high score” in between words of encouragement. Taking his meds almost felt fun when Kenji took his own beside him and made innuendos to make him laugh.

As they all take their seats, Ben decides to play a game of his own. He calls it: how long can my family go without bringing up my accident or disability?

A good thing about using a wheelchair is how easily Ben can hide things. Anything can be shoved under his legs, and no one looks twice. Miriam and Abigail have a strict no phones at the dinner table rule, but Ben’s is cleverly concealed, wedged between his left thigh and the leg guard.

He keeps out of the way while Abigail drags a chair out of the way, shifting other chairs so Ben has more room — and he feels a pang more guilt at making her do so much to accommodate him.

Midway through, she stops, sighs, and says, “Ben, dear, are you sure you can’t just sit in a normal chair for lunch?”

The guilt is gone without a trace, and he says firmly, “I need this.”

There’s so many reasons why: he needs the headrest and side guards to keep his posture and prevent fatigue; he needs a pressure-relieving cushion so he doesn’t get pressure sores; not to mention he is a lot easier — and safer — to deal with if he’s seizing in a chair designed to keep his body supported and cushioned. But there’s just as many reasons why he doesn’t tell her any of that, and keeps his mouth firmly shut.

Numerous dishes are steaming on the table — an enormous roast chicken, kugel, herrings, tzimmes, and so many more — and everyone tucks in, ladling various portions onto their plates. Ben shudders when he realises he’ll probably need someone else to serve him, and he squirms, trying to imagine asking for that. Imagining the pitying stares as people look at him like he’s as old as Sarah and Jacob, who are giggling as they throw broccoli at each other. (The camp fam never make him feel that small.)

“Mom,” he says, voice dropped. “Can— can you put some food on my plate please?”

“Can you not do it yourself?” She says, louder, and a few heads turn.”

“N... no, I— I can’t.”

“Okay.” And to her credit, she does as Ben asks, spooning various dishes onto his plate at his request. It’s kind of embarrassing, but at least she does it. Although, given her track record today, Ben isn’t in the mood to be particularly nice to her.

Everyone’s plates full, the Pincuses begin to eat. Ben subtly opens the stopwatch app on his phone and starts the timer.

Three minutes and fifty-four seconds in, Jonathan asks, “Ben... I do hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did your accident cause a brain injury?”

Fuck’s sake. Ben bites back an eye roll.

“He’s an EMT,” Ashley explains. “That’s why he’s so interested.”

I don’t care! You don’t ask invasive questions to someone you see three times a year! Ben shouts in his head.

“Blood loss,” he says, staring crossly at his plate of food. A web of permanent tissue death and necrosis and repeat concussions all tangle in his mouth, but he doesn’t even try. They aren’t owed that information.

Jonathan looks disappointed with the answer, but concedes. “Oh, okay.”

“Surely you can be a little more specific,” says Abigail, nudging Ben. “It’s okay if you don’t know all the ins and outs.”

“Hey, look, I really don’t... don’t wanna talk about this, okay?”

“No need to be rude,” Miriam says huffily. “He was only asking.”

Ben almost hangs his head and takes it. It would be the far easier way out. But something deep inside tells him he deserves better, and he says, “You shouldn’t ask... questions. To disabled people. About their... their accidents. Never ask ‘what happened’. It’s rude.”

Abigail gives him a reproachful look, and says, “Surely the rules are a little different if we’re family.”

“They aren’t,” Ben shocks himself by saying.

No one looks pleased, Jacob and Sarah are confused, and frankly, Becca looks a little uncomfortable — but the conversation ends there, and Ben is foolish enough to think that’s the end of it. He even restarts the timer — and gets all the way up to two minutes and nine seconds, before Eva says, “Ben, have you considered changing your diet?”

“I already have,” Ben bites back, ignoring the scalding look his mother shoots him.

“I had a friend with a heart problem who cut out all sugars and fats; it really helped!” Eva says, her voice irritatingly chipper.

Ben pointedly takes a huge mouthful of kugel.

“No need for that, Ben,” Abigail says, her voice hushed. “You know, they really are trying to be helpful.”

I don’t care! Ben has to stop himself from screaming. Not only has he tried lots of things — but being given advice when he doesn’t want it is just rude and annoying.

He tries to imagine the camp fam in his situation: Kenji would crack a snarky joke. Sammy and Darius would try to firmly but politely educate them. Brooklynn would say something sarcastic like, “Oh, I didn’t know you were a doctor! What’s your medical background?” Yaz would hit back with, “Wow, I wish I’d have thought of that before buying this twelve thousand dollar powerchair.”

Ben stays silent. He really doesn’t know why his friends call him the brave one.

“You could at least try it,” says Abigail. “You never know, it might make you recover a little bit better.” 

Anger flickers in Ben’s chest. “I’ve been eating well. And it hasn’t made me able bodied.”

“Well, you never know.” Abigail shrugs offhandedly. “Miracles do happen.”

“I’m not gonna get better!”

The table freezes. Abigail’s jaw noticeably tightens.

“I’m gon— gonna be like this—” he gestures up and down his body “—for the rest of my life, mom.” Ben’s still shouting, and he can’t make himself stop. “So you can either accept it, or...” or what? There really is no or that doesn’t involve him cutting her out of her life. And with his father in prison, she’s kind of all he has.

“Benjamin.” Oh fuck. The full name. “We’ll talk about this later.”

And it would be easy — so easy — to just leave it there, finish eating his food, and let the rest of his family forget his outburst.

But a voice inside him, that sounds like the camp fam all blended into one, tells him you deserve better than that, and before he realises what he’s doing, he’s shouting, “We’re talking about this now!”

Abigail stands, the back of her chair clashing against the radiator. “Very well.” Her voice is clipped. “We’ll talk about this outside.”

Abigail tries to grab his handles, and Ben whips around — his wound screaming sharply — and yells “Don’t touch me!”

“I’ve had enough of your attitude, Benjamin,” Abigail says stiffly, but follows him to the front door. In a fit of adrenaline, Ben wrenches the door open and manages to wheelie off the front step, onto the pavement.

Once she’s out of earshot of the others, Abigail lets him hear it.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” She shouts. “I just don’t know why you’re acting like this around your own family.”

“Because they’ve b... they’ve been ableist to me all day!”

Abigail scoffs. “You can’t expect everyone to be perfect! They’re trying, they just... have never been exposed to this sort of thing.”

“Clearly!” Ben retorts. “But Sarah and J— Jacob are more okay w... with disability than— nn— any of you, and they didn’t even sound like they’d heard of it before!”

“Ben, we’re learning. And do you know why we’re working so hard to learn? Because we’re family, and we love you!”

Ben hesitates — part of him really believing her — but something stronger inside him, the same voice as before, surges, and he yells, “You... you’re doing the basic mm— minimum and expecting me to be grateful!”

“And you should be! We love you, you know? And no one will ever love you as much as your family,” she says, her voice firm and clipped — and despite what he knows he should think, what his mother would want him to think, what the world would want him to think... Ben can only picture the camp fam.

“You’re right, mom. And mm... my family are the camp fam.”

Abigail flinches, hurt flashing across her face like a thunderclap.

“I mean it. I love them. They’re the ones who took care of me after my injury.”

“You— know why I couldn’t,” she says, her voice suddenly a quiet hiss. And guilt stabs Ben in the stomach, because he knows. The fatigue she tries to outshine with a smile, the symptoms she buries in a bottle of pills and supplements, the illness she hasn’t told anyone about... Long Covid. Ben’s mum was too sick herself to look after him — and there was only one of her, rather than the five of the camp fam who were able and willing to care for him. It was the easiest choice to make at the time.

(But if Ben had to choose between one of the camp fam, or five of his mother...)

“They accept me,” he says, soft and firm. “They don’t hide my wheelchair in— nn— photos, or tell me t— to speak clearer when I have a fucking speech im... impediment!”

Abigail looks at the ground.

“They’re proud of me.” Ben’s voice rings brave and strong — and a cruel, awful thought strikes him:

“Are— are— are you even proud to have a disabled son?”

Abigail remains devastatingly silent.

“Are you?” Ben chokes out.

“Ben, sweetheart, I just...”

Ben stops processing her voice after that. Her mouth moves in patterns he can’t recognise. He feels underwater, like he’s dying all over again, and a horrible feeling reaches inside him, seizes his organs, and wrings them dry as it dawns on him, the awful truth.

His own mother is ashamed of him.

A hand — her hand — reaches for him, and he screams once again, “Don’t touch me!”

His mother looks at him with a look of utmost betrayal. “Ben?”

“Get the fuck away from me!” He shouts, and she turns away, hurrying into the house without a second look.

The loneliness hits him a second later. Just him, swallowed up by the enormous woods... he feels like a bug, ready to be squished under someone’s cold, uncaring square kitten heels. Panic swoops through him all at once like a wave knocking into him and punching the air from his lungs. His mouth feels like it’s full of sand, and a cough wrenches from his throat as his own breath tries to choke him.

Faintly, he wonders if anyone will come to check on him. They don’t. He knows they won’t.

He can feel his hands starting to shake, and he knows that — whatever it may lead to — is never a good sign. It takes him three tries, but he manages to get his phone out of his pocket, and swipes it open to his emergency contacts.

He dials Yaz — and that’s all he can manage before the tremors overtake his whole arms. He watches the screen, waiting frantically for her to pick up.

Three rings later, her voice cuts through his rapid breathing. “Hey, Pincus. What’s up?”

“Yaz— Yaz, help,” he says, choking on his own spit. “I’m...” and words fail him, tears clogging his throat, and soon all he can taste is the salt of his own tears.

“Ben?” Yaz’s voice shifts, darkening with worry. With fear. “Ben?”

“Please... please com— mm— please come,” he whines, feeling like a lost and terrified child.

“Stay where you are sweetie, we’re on our way.”

“Stay... on th— the phone,” he gets out.

“We’re right here, baby,” a new voice — Sammy — says. “You’re gonna be okay, just take deep breaths, okay?”

“Mm-hm.” Ben sniffles, his body trembling all over. It feels dangerously close to convulsing, and with the sheer amount of stress building inside him, he only hopes Yaz and Sammy will get here in time if he starts seizing.

He can hear faint thuds of Yaz and Sammy getting in the car, and starting to drive crackling over the phone. Their reassurances come frequently, even when he can’t make a coherent sound in response — “we’re on our way,” “just keep breathing honey,” “you’re gonna be okay,” “we’re not too far,” “just five minutes away” — until the van revs into the driveway, and Yaz jumps out before it even rolls to a halt.

“Ben!”

“Yazzy?” The childish nickname falls off his tongue, too quiet for her to hear.

“Oh, Ben,” Yaz exclaims, throwing her arms around him and cradling his head in her hand. Sammy sprints towards them to join the hug, and Ben relaxes into the safety of their arms.

Shielded and safe from the rest of the world, Ben starts to cry. Great, heaving sobs that make the trembling even worse, and guilt stabs at his chest every time his spasming arms crash into Yaz and Sammy’s bodies. But they stand steady, refusing to let him go, and he lets his tears soak into someone’s shoulder. Sammy shushes him — a soothing sound; not a patronising one — and Yaz massages his scalp with her fingers, combing through his long hair to ground him. And they let Ben cry until his throat aches, his head spins, and every part of his body can’t stop shaking.

“M— mom,” he bawls.

“Oh, honey, was it something your mama said?” Sammy coos gently, rubbing small circles into his back.

“Mm-hm,” Ben says — because she’s not wrong. It’s easier to pretend that’s what he meant.

(He doesn’t tell her he was crying out for her and Yaz.)

“Whatever she said, I’m sure...” and Sammy trails off, because she can’t be sure of anything. Ben can’t even be sure she didn’t mean it, and he doesn’t want to guess.

“We’ll deal with it,” she decides on saying. “All of us, if you want our help.”

“Mm—” Ben’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “Mm-hm. Ple... please.”

Yaz hesitantly unravels herself from the pile, and crouches before him. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

“C— Car, in th— the car,” he says, sporadically hiccuping.

“Okay, we gotcha,” Sammy says, taking Ben’s joystick and propelling him forward. He’s more grateful than ever for his headrest, or he’s certain his neck wouldn’t hold the swirling storm in his head upright. One of Yaz’s hands still cradles his head, stroking the sweat off his forehead.

Ben thanks his lucky stars they took Ben’s accessible van (faithfully named Bumpy IV). What could’ve been a painful and difficult transfer from his wheelchair into the backseat is a simple matter of Yaz and Sammy unloading the ramp, pushing him up, putting the brakes on, and closing the doors behind them.

The quiet makes it better. Nicer. His head isn’t pounding as hard as when he was exposed to the dizzying brightness of the sunshine. All the background noise of birds and cars and chatter is gone, and Yaz and Sammy take extra care to be quiet.

His lips form the shape of a W sound, but he can’t for the life of him push a word out.

“Can you sign it?” Yaz asks softly.

“Or act it out?”

Ben mimes drinking something, and then remembers the sign for water, tapping his wobbly index finger against his chin. His hand collapses in his lap, even that exertion exhausting his muscles. This is why he does everything he can to cry as little as possible. The mental and physical crash afterwards... it’s just not worth it.

“Here you go,” Yaz says, uncapping the straw nozzle and holding it to Ben’s lips so he can drink from it. He’d usually loathe the baby treatment, but he knows he couldn’t hold that bottle himself if he tried.

Ben drains the bottle dry, and Yaz slips the cuff of her jumper over her fingers to wipe his mouth. “That better?” She asks.

Ben nods, and signs ‘thanks.’

Yaz presses a kiss to his forehead. “We love you. Just reminding you.”

Ben gives a watery smile. ‘I know,’ he signs. ‘Thanks. I love you.’

Sammy holds him extra tight, her arms soothing the remnants of the shaking in his limbs. Yaz sits on his lap, and the relief of the deep pressure, he swears, is actually enough to undo a knot of tension in his muscles. Ben takes deep breaths until his head hurts a little less, and given he spent the last... ten? twenty? minutes crying his eyes out, his heart is as steady as it can be.

Eventually, it’s Sammy who asks the dreaded question. “Do you feel ready to talk about it yet?”

A sob hitches in Ben’s throat, and he shakes his head like a reflex.

Sammy comforts him instantly. “That’s okay, baby, you just—”

Wait! Ben raises his hand. Sammy falls silent. He takes a deep breath, preparing his mouth. “I think... I can try.” Even though he can barely get through a sentence, and he knows he can’t write or type, he can give it a go. He knows a few signs, at least; he can start there.

‘Mom... said...’ he starts in ASL, before switching to English, “Ashamed.” That word comes out of him in one clean, irrefutable breath, scarred onto his tongue. Two syllables have never hurt his stomach more to say. “Of— vv— m... me.” ‘My disability.’

Yaz and Sammy’s faces are the picture of sadness. “Oh, baby...” Sammy coos, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “I can’t imagine why she’d even think that.”

‘I asked her,’ he signs, “If she’s... proud. To hav— have a disabled son.” ‘She said nothing.’ His hand flops frustratedly down on the end of the ‘nothing’ sign.

Yaz and Sammy exchange glances in Ben’s peripheral. They don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t blame them. How can anyone fix hurt as enormous as this?

The thought is hopeless enough to make Ben start crying again. His sobs are quieter this time, and his muscles don’t have the energy left in them to be trembling.

When he feels like he’s cried all the tears out of him, Yaz cups his chin, and guides him to look right at her. “I’m proud to have a disabled best friend,” she says sincerely, looking straight at Ben as she wipes a tear away with her thumb. “I’m proud of you, every single day, and I love you so much.” She plants a kiss on Ben’s forehead, and tears well up in Ben’s eyes.

“And I’m proud to have a disabled best friend too,” adds Sammy. “And my gorgeous disabled fiance, of course. And Brooklynn. But also you. I’m proud of all of y’all.”

“Th— thanks, g... guys,” Ben gets out, sniffing, blinking rapidly to make himself stop crying. He’s had enough of that today. His eyelashes tangle, and a stray one sticks onto his cheek.

“Oh, make a wish!” Sammy says.

Ben swipes at the eyelash, his weak, trembling fingers failing to grab it. Yaz steps in, and plucks it off his cheek. Ben thinks long and hard. “Hm... I wish...”

“Don’t tell us!” Sammy exclaims. “That defeats the whole point.”

“Okay, okay,” Ben says, managing a watery laugh.

I wish that we’ll all be friends forever, he says in his head.

Yaz and Sammy hug him again, warm and steady, and Ben lets himself relax into their arms once again.

“Love you guys,” he whispers.

“Love you too,” they both whisper back, voices perfectly out of sync.

They stay in comfortable silence for a moment longer, before Sammy eventually says, “Now come on, baby, let’s get you to a decent bed. You need a lie-down.”

It’s better than being crammed in a cage with a becklespinax, but their drive back to the last minute hotel Sammy finds in Springfield is far from perfect. A tiny part of him wants to go back there, apologise to Sarah, Jacob and Becca for ruining their nice day, and wish them well since he probably won’t see them again for a while — but most of him can’t stomach being anywhere near his mother. Near any of his relatives. When he even suggests seeing her again, Yaz and Sammy noticeably bristle, like cats hissing at danger, and Sammy firmly shakes her head. “I’m not hearing shit from her. Not until she apologises,” she says, in that way of hers that leaves no room for argument. In spite of it all, a warm feeling of protected blossoms in Ben’s chest.

He slowly recounts the whole day — from his mother angling his wheelchair out of the photo, to telling him to leave it outside, and more things that have Sammy gripping the steering wheel like she’s trying to choke it. With Ben’s permission, Yaz calls Nadia and tells her everything. From what little he can hear, Nadia sounds furious, and Ben feels even worse.

“Yaz, I—” his throat gets stuck on the I for a while before he’s able to say, “I’m sorry if this... ruins things b... between your mm— mm— mom and mine,” Ben says.

“Oh, mom’s furious at her,” Yaz says. “Says she won’t even talk to Abigail until she apologises to you first.”

Guilt stabs through Ben, landing right in his stomach. “R.eally?”

“Yeah. And this isn’t your fault, by the way,” she adds upon seeing the distraught look on Ben’s face. “Mom specifically told you that. This is on your mother, and her internalised ableism.”

“She doesn’t mm— mean it,” Ben finds himself saying. “She— she...”

“Sorry for interrupting you, Ben, but don’t make excuses for her,” Sammy says firmly, her voice echoing a distant strain of hurt. “You deserve better than that. I don’t care why she did what she did. I care that she hurt you.”

Yaz leans across and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I second... basically all of that.”

Ben’s head lolls against the side of his headrest. “I know, I just... gah. Don’t like being... annoying,” is the only word he can think of.

“You’re not annoying, honey,” Sammy says. “And you certainly never annoy us.”

Ben’s head lolls back against his headrest. “I’m just tired. All the— the ableism. It’s... exhausting. An— nn— not just my— my family. It’s everyone.”

“I know, sweetie.” Yaz squeezes his knee. “I really do get it, trust me.”

Ben’s head rolls towards her. “‘M I making sense?”

“To us you are.”

Ben smiles. “Thanks guys.”

“Nothing to thank us for, Pincus.” Yaz leans over and squeezes his knee. “We’ll always be here for you. That’s what families are for.”