▸ Column · Modern Midgard — contemporary America, where Thor walks among mortals
THOR replies.
The letter
Theodore and I have been together going on three years. We share an apartment, we have a rescue beagle named Pepper — I mean, we have a whole life together. But every time his parents make the drive down from Chattanooga, he arranges a "surprise spa day" for me. Nice, right? Except I've never actually been home when they're there.
I've never met them. Not at Thanksgiving, not at his sister's wedding this past spring — he introduced me to some cousins as "a colleague" and sat me at a table on the other side of the room. When I finally asked him point-blank about it, he said his mom is kind of old-fashioned and that it "wasn't the right time yet." I know he said basically the same thing a year ago because I wrote it down.
Then Pepper's vet — who also sees his parents' dog at the same practice — mentioned them in a way that made it pretty obvious they have no idea I exist at all. Not even as a friend.
I'm honestly starting to feel like he's ashamed of me. And I'm running out of ways to pretend those spa appointments are a gift instead of just... a way to get me out of the house.
— Invisible in Nashville
Thor replies
Good soul, hear me plainly: what this man does is not a kindness. He calls it a gift. It is not. It is erasure with a bathrobe.
I was once a prince who believed my own comfort settled every question of right and wrong. I was wrong about that, and it cost me my hammer, my throne, and nearly my brother. I name my own foolishness to you now because I see Theodore's comfort in every spa day he books — the easy choice dressed as thoughtfulness. His mother's ease is not worth your dignity. He has chosen it again and again, and each time he has hoped you would not notice or would be too gracious to name it.
You have noticed. You have been too gracious.
Whether he is capable of something better — that, I do not yet know. I believe people can choose courage when they finally understand the cost of choosing otherwise. But they must be shown the cost.
Tell him once, plainly, without anger if you can manage it: I will not be your secret. Either you introduce me as your partner — honestly, to your parents, before the next visit — or I cannot stay. Not cruelty. A standard. What he does next will tell you everything you need to know about who he has decided to become.
Do not wait longer than that, friend. You deserve to be stood beside. That is not negotiable, and you have already been patient well past what worthiness requires of anyone.
— Thor
Hela weighs in
How sweet of my brother to counsel patience. He would. He was never the one painted over.
Supplicant — they introduced you to cousins as a colleague. They seated you at a different table at his own sister's wedding. They booked a spa day so the house would be clean and correct and empty of you by the time the people who matter arrived. He did not stumble into this. He planned it. Every time. With precision.
You were not hidden by accident. You were managed.
Thor tells you to give him a standard, as though he simply forgot to become brave. I tell you he has already given you one. He showed you, over and over, whom he protects when the stakes are real. Accept that verdict. Then decide whether you will keep accepting the appointment — or start existing somewhere he cannot schedule you away.
A life lived as someone's secret is not a life. It is a sentence.
— Hela
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