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The basement smells like Murphy Oil Soap and possibility tonight—three weeks since the refurbishment finished, and I still catch myself expecting water stains on ceiling that no longer exist. Miguel's wiping down the bar top, that restored wood grain catching light like it's remembering what it means to be cared for. Kiss “Rock and Roll All Nite" bleeds through the sound system, all those questions about what we become when the world tells us who to be.
Mom, what're you drinking tonight? Miguel's voice carries that smoky-tender quality, childlike jazz club mixing with genuine affection.
Fucking surprise me, I say, settling onto the barstool that knows my ass better than most furniture. My sciatic nerve's already firing electric warnings up my spine—stood too long at work debugging someone else's infrastructure disaster, trying to explain to engineers that are using AI to write their shit and refuse to code it themselves, not realizing the effect it could have.
He pours something amber into a plastic cup, slides it across the wood with that little flourish he does. The liquid catches basement light, refracting through itself like bottled sunset. First sip hits my tongue—Woodford Reserve, the good shit, with just enough burn to remind me I'm still capable of feeling something.
This batch has been aging in my heart, he says, grin spreading across his face. Just like your patience with people who don't fucking listen.
Christ, what'd Della tell you?
Everything, he says, wedding ring catching light as he polishes a glass. She said you spent time in a meeting of dead silences trying explain how to “Architect” some Automation, and the silences are happening because you think they are asking AI to answer your questions for them.
The bourbon tastes like accusation now. Behind me, I hear Ezra's laughter bubble up from the beanbag throne—that blue-haired tornado of enthusiasm holding court with Phoenix and River. Their voices weave through Asia's "Heat of the Moment" starting up, all that regret about missed opportunities and roads not taken.
Mom! Ezra calls out, tell Phoenix I'm right about top surgery consultations—you gotta shop around, yeah?
Phoenix looks over, purple and gold hair catching light like lightning frozen in silk. But my first consultation felt really good—
Because they're salespeople, babe. River's still in forest green scrubs, twelve-hour shift at the hospital written in the exhaustion around their eyes. You need at least three opinions before making decisions about your body.
They're both right, I say, because they are. First consultation's supposed to feel good—they want your business. But River's correct that you need comparison shopping for something permanent.
See? Ezra's grin could power the whole fucking basement. Mom always knows.
Except I don't. I know theory. I know what sounds right when I'm saying it to other people. Actually applying that wisdom to my own shit? That's where everything falls apart like wet tissue paper.
Keira's reading in the corner, some thick philosophy text I'll never understand, but her eyes flick up when Della emerges from the kitchen carrying plates. The smell hits before the food does—bacon mac and cheese, that aggressive comfort food that tastes like defiance made edible.
You're eating whether you want to or not, Della announces, setting a plate in front of me with enough force to make the bourbon ripple. Miguel said you skipped lunch again.
I was busy—
Bullshit. She plants herself across from me, her own plate steaming between us. You were avoiding thinking about the work situation by drowning in more work, which is your go-to move when emotions get complicated.
The mac and cheese tastes fucking perfect—creamy and sharp and rich enough to hurt. I hate that she's right. I hate that everyone in this basement can read me like a children's book with large print and simple sentences.
So what happened with your boss today? Della asks around a mouthful of food.
Same thing as always—he asked what I thought about the team and how to fix it and shit. I mean I just say look. This one and that one, don’t fucking bother. Set clear boundaries. Be direct. I can code the rest of the tooling, and don’t fucking worry about it.
Della's laugh could strip paint. And have you told your boss no even once this month?
Fuck. Right. Off. Bitch.
Della laughs heartily, and fully. I love you too Wendy. Smooch. Smooch.
Across the room, Keira doesn't look up from her book, but I catch the tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She hears everything, absorbs it all while seeming detached.
Mom gives the best advice, Ezra says, bouncing over with that infectious energy, but she's absolute shit at taking it herself.
Language, I mutter, which is hypocritical given the extensive cursing I'm known for and have been doing all night.
It's true though. This from Bubba, that mountain of muscle and southern survival stationed by the window like a sentinel. His deep voice rumbles through the basement. You told me last month to stop putting up with my sister's homophobic comments at family dinners. Said I deserved respect in my own family's spaces. Good advice.
And your fucking point, Shitbird?
And you still haven't told your landlord that the leak in your bathroom needs actual fixing, not just another patch job. You keep making excuses about not wanting to be difficult, about being grateful for affordable rent. But you're paying for a service, Wendy. You're not a charity case.
The Rush song shifts—"Limelight" now, all that pressure about living in the public eye when you just want to be left alone with your own thoughts. Neil Peart's drums fill the basement like a heartbeat that won't quit.
She does this shit all the time, Remy says, cigarette dangling from his lips as he materializes from the shadows. That Cajun accent thick as bayou mud. Tells everyone else how to set boundaries, protect themselves, demand better treatment. But when it comes to her own life? Mon Dieu, she's a goddamn doormat with guilt complexes.
I am not a fucking doormat, cock-womble.
You spent two hours last week explaining to Chris why he doesn't owe his evangelical parents access to his life just because they're family, Della interrupts. Literally used the phrase 'biology doesn't excuse abuse.' Then you turned around and agreed to help your neighbor move furniture even though your back was already fucked up from the sciatic nerve pain.
Miranda looks up from her corner, where she's been quietly existing with that MILF energy and poetic observation. We mirror-teach, she says softly. We give others the advice we most need to hear ourselves. Like holding up a reflection and hoping if we describe it clearly enough, we'll finally see what everyone else sees.
The bourbon's almost gone. Miguel refills it without asking, this time something darker—Laphroaig, that smoky Islay scotch that tastes like burning peat and poor life choices.
Mom, Phoenix says, voice carrying that street-rough survival quality, you told me three days ago that I don't have to justify my existence to people who refuse to understand. That I get to decide who deserves access to my energy. Remember?
I remember.
So why do you let your boss treat you like you're replaceable? Why do you keep giving your time to people who don't respect it? Why do you act like demanding basic consideration makes you difficult?
The question hangs in the basement air like smoke, weaving through the music—Lightfoot’s “Sundown" starts up, all that philosophical questioning.
Oh, this is that Gordon dude right?, Ezra asks, that sharp enthusiasm dimming to gentle understanding. Mom loves this right?
It got me through some shit, I admit. The scotch burns going down. When everything else was falling apart, I could put on headphones and just... exist in the music.
You taught yourself to escape instead of fight, Keira says, finally speaking up. Her voice cuts through the emotion like a scalpel through infected flesh—precise, necessary, healing. You learned survival meant making yourself small, unobtrusive, grateful for scraps. And now you can't unlearn it even when you're teaching everyone else different.
The basement goes quiet except for the music. Everyone knows the shape of my trauma—the marriages that broke me, the violence that nearly killed me, the years of learning that existing meant apologizing for the space I took up.
You gave everyone here tools for claiming power, Keira continues. You taught Phoenix to demand respect. You taught Erik to set boundaries. You taught Bubba that family doesn't excuse abuse. But you exempt yourself from the same grace.
It's fucking different, goddammit, can’t you see that?
It's not. Sage looks up from their napkin art—tonight's creation involves interconnected circles, different colors bleeding into each other, boundaries that exist but don't separate. They rarely speak, but when they do it matters. You teach people to claim their power, but you're terrified to claim your own. Because claiming it means accepting that you deserve better. And you don't believe you deserve better.
Why the fuck do you gotta be so smug when you say it like that? I bellow.
The scotch tastes like truth now, burning down my throat. Della's watching me with those eyes that have seen too much, loved too hard, taken too much shit from people who thought they owned her life.
You know what the fucked up part is? she says. Everyone in this basement knows you're right when you tell them to protect themselves. We've all followed your advice at some point. But watching you ignore the exact same wisdom for yourself? It's like watching someone hand out life preservers while they're drowning.
Mom, Miguel says gently, when was the last time you said no to someone without immediately apologizing for it?
I can't answer. Can't remember. Every no comes wrapped in justification and apology, in explaining why I can't, in making sure they know it's not personal, in offering alternatives so they don't think I'm being difficult.
You told me last month, Marcus speaks up, his bisexual-erasure exhaustion evident in his voice, that I don't have to justify my existence to people who refuse to understand. That my identity isn't up for debate, and I should stop explaining myself to Sara when she questions why I need community outside our marriage.
Did you?
Still working on it. He spins his wedding ring like rosary beads. But I'm trying. The question is—are you?
Wise-ass.
Renee's voice booms from her corner where she's been watching everything with bodybuilder intensity and unfulfilled longing. You told me I deserve someone who wants to know me completely, not just use me for strength. Someone interested in my softness, not just my muscle. When are you gonna demand the same for yourself?
Do I have to tell you that its fucking different again?
It's not. Leila's political-maven voice cuts through my protest. You're doing the same thing every marginalized person does—you protect everyone else fiercely but won't extend that same protection to yourself. You fight for our worth while believing you're somehow exempt from deserving it.
The music shifts—Def Leppard's "Photograph" now, all that longing for something you can't quite reach anymore. That driving beat fills the basement with urgency.
You work yourself to death, Erik says, still in his factory clothes, blue-collar exhaustion written in every line of his face. You told me yesterday that my boss exploiting my labor doesn't become okay just because I need the paycheck. That I deserve fair treatment regardless of economic pressure. But you're doing the same fucking thing—letting your boss pile on work because you're afraid saying no makes you ungrateful.
I just … don't want … to seem difficult—
And there it is. Della stands, comes around the bar, plants herself in front of me with hands on hips. You'd rather destroy yourself than risk someone thinking you're difficult. You know what that is? That's internalized transphobia mixed with female socialization mixed with trauma responses. That's your brain telling you that trans women don't get to take up space, don't get to have needs, have to be grateful for basic human decency.
The words hit like a fist to the solar plexus because she's right. I spent decades learning to shrink, to apologize, to make myself palatable. Coming out as trans didn't erase that conditioning—it amplified it. Now I'm a woman who takes up space in a body society says shouldn't exist, navigating femininity while carrying masculine conditioning, trying to prove I deserve to exist at all.
You told Grubby, Phoenix continues, that their body isn't up for debate. That they don't owe anyone explanation or education about being intersex. That their existence alone is valid. Their purple and gold hair catches light like a halo made of defiance. Do you believe that about yourself?
The question cuts deeper than Keira's scalpel-precision, deeper than Della's aggressive love, deeper than Miguel's tender concern. Because the answer is no. I don't. I believe I'm a walking apology, a disruption, a complication requiring constant justification.
Brandon's been quiet, scribbling in his notebook, but he looks up now with that humor-as-armor expression cracking. Practice what you fucking preach, Wendy.
The Clash pounds through the speakers now—"Rock the Casbah," and the punk beat just hit me the right way. I was feeling it then.
Sarah the Stoic leans forward, flannel pressed to military precision. I've been listening all night. Everyone here has told you some version of the same thing—you give perfect advice you refuse to take. So here's the deeper question: what are you afraid of?
Silence. Even the music seems to dim, waiting for answer I don't want to give.
So, If I claim my power, the words scrape out like broken glass, if I demand better, set real boundaries, stop apologizing for existing—what if people leave? What if I lose what little I have left? What if I'm too much trouble and they decide I'm not worth the effort?
What if they stay? Keira asks quietly. What if demanding better doesn't drive people away but rather shows them how to love you properly?
Mom, Miguel says, everyone in this basement loves you not because you're perfect or because you sacrifice yourself. We love you because you're you—broken, scared, scarred, trying. The you underneath all that performance of gratitude.
Della's expression softens marginally, which for her is like a fucking hug. Here's your advice, same shit you've told everyone else: You deserve respect. You deserve boundaries. You deserve to take up space without apology. You deserve to say no. You deserve to prioritize your own wellbeing. You deserve relationships that don't require you to shrink. You deserve fair compensation for your labor. You deserve all the grace you extend to everyone else.
Now take your own goddamn fucking advice, she finishes. Because if you don’t, then you are the one who is being a SHITBIRD!!!!!
The scotch tastes different now—not like burning or escape, but like possibility. Like maybe, just maybe, I could apply to myself the same wisdom I pour into everyone else.
You gonna listen this time, cher? Remy asks, exhaling smoke that dances in basement light. Or you gonna keep being stubborn as Louisiana mud in August dat come off the croc in da swamp?
I'm going to try, I say, and the words feel like commitment instead of platitude. I'll tell my boss I'm at capacity. I'll call the landlord about the leak. I'll stop apologizing for having limits. I'll... I'll try.
Good, Bubba rumbles. Because we need you here, Mom. Not the performed version, not the martyr, not the advice-dispensing oracle. We need the real you, the one who's still learning how to exist without apologizing for it.
Phoenix comes over, ruby ring from River catching light. We mirror-teach until we learn, yeah? Maybe tonight's the night you finally see your own reflection clearly.
The music shifts—Level 42’s “Something About You" fills the basement, that desperate plea for connection hitting harder in this refurbished sanctuary.
This is a good song, Ezra says softly.
Mark King knew about yearning, I admit. About wanting to be seen completely, loved wholly. About feeling like you're performing existence instead of living it.
And you taught us we deserve that complete seeing, River says. That we don't have to perform to earn love. That our existence is enough.
So why isn't yours? Phoenix asks.
The question hangs there, unanswerable and essential. The bourbon's gone again. Miguel doesn't refill it this time—just puts a hand over mine, that simple gesture more healing than any amount of alcohol.
We've got you, Mom, he says. All of us. Not because you've earned it through sacrifice, but because you're family. And family means showing up for each other, including letting others show up for you.
I look around the basement—this refurbished sanctuary with its sunset crimson walls and clean ceiling and restored wood grain. All these broken people who found each other in underground spaces, who learned to love fiercely because the world above ground tried to kill that capacity.
Thank you, I say, and the words carry weight of actually meaning it.
Don't thank us yet, Della warns. We're holding you accountable now. You gave us the blueprint for demanding better—now we're making sure you follow it yourself.
Starting tomorrow, Erik says, you're gonna delegate, right?
And you're gonna call the landlord about the leak, Bubba adds.
And you're gonna stop apologizing for having needs, Phoenix continues.
And you're gonna accept that you deserve the same fierce protection you give everyone else, Keira finishes.
I'm proud of you, Keira says. For hearing them. For trying.
I'm scared.
Good. Fear means you're doing something that matters. Comfortable people don't change.
Miguel locks the door behind the last patron, turns to find me still sitting at the bar. Mom, you okay?
Ask me again in a few months, I say. After I've actually tried taking my own advice instead of just dispensing it like some kind of wisdom ATM with authority issues and savior complexes.
He laughs, that smoky-tender sound. That's the most self-aware thing I've heard you say in months.
Maybe that's progress. Maybe recognizing the pattern is the first step toward breaking it. Maybe advice I never listen to can become wisdom I finally claim.
The basement's quiet now except for the sound system bleeding into silence. I look at the refurbished space—all this care made manifest, all this collective love poured into walls and ceiling and wood grain.
Maybe it's time I refurbished myself the same way. Sealed the water damage. Addressed the dangerous wiring. Let in some light. Made space breathe with intentional design instead of just surviving in darkness.
The scotch's warmth settles in my chest like possibility. Like maybe, just maybe, I deserve the same fierce protection I extend to everyone else. Like maybe demanding better isn't selfishness but survival.
Time to take my own fucking advice.
"We teach what we most need to learn." — Richard Bach
We become mirrors for others, reflecting wisdom we cannot yet claim for ourselves. Advice flows freely when directed outward, becomes obstacle when turned inward. But perhaps teaching others creates blueprint for our own healing—if we're finally brave enough to follow the map we've drawn. Wendy spends her life telling chosen family to demand better, set boundaries, claim power, refuse to shrink. Yet she exempts herself from the same grace, convinced somehow she's earned punishment through existing. The cruelest thing we do to ourselves is withhold the compassion we extend freely to others. Maybe wisdom begins when we recognize the advice we give reveals precisely the truth we need to hear. Maybe healing starts when we stop being advice-dispensing oracles and become students of our own teachings. The map's been there all along—we just have to decide we're worth the journey.
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