"Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love you"

(Based on 'Hamlet' by William Shakespeare)

The English language is littered with four lettered words. This wouldn't be a problem, except for the fact that I despise an unusual amount of those four lettered words. You see, the problem I have with certain four lettered words, is that there are those that are said too much, but meant too little; the ones that get abused in their usage. You know the ones I'm talking about: love, hate.

Even words like 'hell', said innocently enough, and often, but never really meant. Let me tell you, when you've gone to the burning abode of devils and condemned spirits in torment, then you can refer to whatever situation you please as 'hell'. Until then, school is not 'hell', it's difficult. Traffic this morning was not 'hell', it was busy.

Get my drift? Good. Why is that good? It's good because if you get my drift, then you can probably imagine my reaction to my mother's new husband's first words to me. His words were, and I quote:

"Cade, I know that this last year has been very hard, what with the fights and the split and military school…and I know that it won't be easy at first, in fact you might find this to be hell, and you might even hate us. But your mother and I love each other, and I can only hope that one day you'll love me as much as she does."

Okay, first? My name is Cayden. Cay-den! Cade is my nickname. Want to know what a nickname is? A nickname is a name added to or substituted for the proper name of a person as a sign of affection, ridicule, or familiarity. Unless he is capable of being affectionate to a stranger, 'affection' is ruled out, and as I've just pointed out, so is 'familiarity'. That leaves 'ridicule', or the fact that another four lettered word has been used and abused. As for the rest of it…well, he used twenty-nine four lettered words in those first words to me. I could lecture you on about half of them. But I won't, because you're not here for a lesson on vocabulary.

But seriously, for a speech that sounded so rehearsed, you'd think he'd actually know what he was talking about. So I figured if he was going to misuse words, I was too.

"Go to hell." Technically, I didn't misuse those words. And, I actually meant them for what they were, unlike most people. But see, when I say misuse, I meant more simply I was saying one thing and meaning another and letting him pick my meaning for himself.

No doubt you picked up my first meaning, which was the literal one. Let me explain the second one to you. To go to hell you, technically, have to die. To sleep, perchance to dream. To die means to be gone. To be…well, I'll put it simply. The second meaning in my words was simply 'Get out of my life.'

Judging by the look on his face, though, I'd say he understood both meanings. But that's okay. I'm allowed to be rude. I'm an angst-ridden teenager shipped off to military school for a year so that my parents could 'sort out their differences' only to return and find that my parent's idea of 'sorting out their differences' was to be rid of each other and find someone new. Well, in my mother's case, newish.

"Cade, can't you just be happy for me?" my mother pleads with me. I like my mother. I'm not afraid to admit that. At one point I might have even gone as far as saying I loved her. But, really, after living with me for seventeen years, although technically in the last year she didn't actually live with me, she should understand me a little. Moreover, she should understand that I overanalyse everything.

"There's a difference between being happy for you, and being happy with you, mother," I say. "You see, I am perfectly happy for you. It's the 'with' part that's not going so well. I think it's something to do with the man you married."

"Cayden, if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," my mother snaps.

"If I followed your advice, Mother, your new husband and I would never speak," I say icily.

"Father; call me your father."

"Isn't the title of 'Uncle' a little closer to home?" I snap.

Oh, haven't I mentioned that part yet? I guess I got carried away with my four lettered words. Speaking of which, I can think of several that would describe Lucas, my mother's new husband, perfectly… As I was saying, this man, Lucas, is, in fact, my uncle. Well, obviously now he was more than just that, but you know what I mean.

Before you go all "Home-And-Away" on me, no my father's not dead-but-secretly-alive-I-just-don't-know-it-yet, or anything like that. He's alive. Currently somewhere in America, if the rumours are to be believed; which they are, because my mother started them.

"He's your father," my mother says firmly.

"But he was my uncle first."

"If you're going to go on about who I love, maybe I should start going on about who you love!"

Touché.

"But surely, mother, there's nothing to go on about," I say firmly, hinting.

Oh, you might have noticed she said the word 'love'. And you might also have notice that…I didn't deny it. That's because I actually, truly, do love him. And yes, I said him, and no, that wasn't a typo. I am gay. And before you start saying something along the lines of 'gay' means 'happy', yeah, don't even get into an argument about words with me. I'll win; every time.

Gay also means supporting homosexuality. And the way I figure it? How better to support homosexuals, than to be one?

"The forbidden fruit always taste the sweetest," my mother says loftily.

I had a feeling she was going to play that card. She has this notion that being gay is something I can control. She has this notion that I'm doing this to annoy or upset her. Sort of like she thinks I'm doing this because she told me not to.

See, the sensible and smart thing to do is say, simply, that that's not the case, and it's out of my control. But you know what? The first thing I learn when I get away from the worst year of my life so far is that I went through it all for nothing. I'd found out that my parents had divorced (thanks for the letter, guys), my mother had re-married (because why would you tell your son about that?), and I now have to call my uncle my father (if that's not messed up, I don't know what is).

I'm allowed to have as much attitude as I want.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I say, falsely smug – I say falsely because his parents are even worse about homosexuality than mine are and he actually listens to his parents, therefore I wouldn't know. That was his reason, anyway. Cue the face pale.

"You haven't- you wouldn't- you did something?" she gasps out. I wish.

I really could go on like this with my mother. But…well, she's my mother…I'm not that cruel.

"Mum, it was a joke. Nothing's happened," I say resignedly.

"Oh…well…make sure it doesn't," she says, slightly surprised. Oh, because I have control over these things. It takes two to tango (ladies and gentlemen that was a metaphor. It does not count as 'incorrect use of words', even though I am clearly not doing the tango).

"What do you want me to do? Avoid him?" I ask, only slightly sarcastic, because knowing my mother…

"Yes. I want you to promise me you won't go near him again," she says firmly. What a surprise.

"I promise I'll try to," I sigh in defeat.

"And, honestly, I know you're not okay with this marriage thing but…promise me you'll give it a go? See if things work out?" She's pleading now.

"I can't promise much," I say honestly. She nods, looking worn out. She's worn out?

"Can I go now? I'm pretty tired," I ask as politely as I can.

"Sure."

I get up and walk slowly towards the door. I turn the handle, open it up and slip into the hallway.

"Cayden?" I pause. "Did you love him?"

"Yes," I say honestly.

"Do you still love him?" My mother's voice drops slightly. Is she, perhaps, feeling remorse?

I ponder her question a moment. I think of all her marriages, her flings, her promises. Does she even know what love is? Then I think of the moment I first realised I loved him. Do I still feel that way?

"…no." And with that said, I took my leave.

Despite all our differences, our problems, mum and I have always been a team. I've told her every thing; she's told me (almost) everything. I can honestly say that I always tell her the truth. So when my mother asked me if I loved him, whilst holding the hand of her fifth husband, I only answered how I always have.

Now, as you know, I put great stock into words and their meanings. If you don't know that, I suggest you go back to the beginning and start again. You see, 'mother', means 'female parent'. A parent, the second meaning, anyway, is a protector and a guardian and is a source of love and discipline.

My mother shoved me off to military school the minute my life started interfering with hers. So technically, technically, I could say that she is, in fact, not my mother, as of last year. Now, I said I've always told the truth to my mother, but if she's not my mother anymore, then, technically, I'm no longer bound by that self restraint.

So, just whilst I'm being all open and honest with you, I'm going to let you in on a secret. When my mother asked me if I still loved him…I lied.