He pulled his rental car into the once-familiar driveway, a concrete path to his unhappy past, one he'd turned his back on years before, having redirected himself to happiness.

Kurt offered to go with him, to be there with him, for him.

Blaine said no.

It was enough that Kurt had attended the funeral with him. But to go back to the house, waiting for the inevitable moment when the dam would certainly burst, was more than he could subject him to.

It began three days before the memorial service for his mother, maybe a little

earlier. He'd tried to tune it out. His father's voice -- the same voice that tried to persuade him that his life was something he could change his mind about, the father that sat silently through the few dinners they had shared when he was a child, the father who ultimately told him he was no longer a member of the family -- his voice cracked, and broke.

He tried to tell Blaine what had happened, how her heart had simply given out, and that he needed to come home. He broke down in sobs partway through the call, and turned the phone over to Blaine's brother.

"It's time to come home," Cooper said simply, sharing the story and the details of the funeral plans. "You're needed here."

The temptation to stay put was fleeting, but real. Though his mother had ultimately stood by her husband when Blaine last walked out their door, she reached out to her son on birthdays, holidays and a handful of other occasions. The care packages, the news clippings, the Christmas gifts for both himself and Kurt always arrived with a card signed with love, and Blaine believed it, even if they had stopped speaking.

His father never signed the cards.

They had given up on being a family, all three of them: The father for his disappointing son, the son who saw futility in compromise, the mother caught in the crosshairs. They had stopped functioning as a family, but his mother had made a point of letting him know that he was not forgotten.

At the funeral, it became apparent how his mother's death had devastated his father.

Once a strong, confident, square-jawed businessman, his father looked aged and defeated. He sat silently on the church pew, his shoulders hunched, his jaw slack. When he first saw Blaine enter the church, hand-in-hand with Kurt, his eyes met theirs, briefly. He gave them a feinted nod, an acknowledgement of sorts, then refocused his eyes on the floor.

Cooper told them how everything in the house seemed to set him off in torrents of tears, something Blaine never expected. Their mother's things needed to be packed up, but he couldn't even look at her closet, and Cooper wasneeded back in Los Angeles.

Could Blaine do it?

"We don't even speak, Coop."

"He needs you right now. He may not realize it, but he does. And maybe this would be good for you, too."

He didn't expect a 'yes'. But there he was, standing near an open grave, agreeing to stop by the house that stopped being a part of his life years before. Yes, his father could use a hand. Yes, he would be by tomorrow to help collect her things, because his father didn't know what to do with her belongings or with himself.

****

Blaine sat in the car for a moment, the engine running. There was still time for a quick getaway.

He shut the engine off, and stepped out, walking up the impressive footpath to the even more impressive home. It was more than a house, to be sure, though perhaps a little less than a mansion.

He paused again at the front porch. Would you just open the door and walk in, years after having been disowned? He knocked. His father was waiting.

They greeted each other solemnly, and attempted abbreviated pleasantries.

"Have you eaten?"

"I'm good. I think I'll just ... Maybe you should ... maybe you could watch a game in the den. Maybe that would be better."

"Yes. OK. Of course."

Blaine rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a large stack of paper shopping bags, picked up a pen and pad of paper and headed back to his parents' master suite, where his-and-hers walk-in closets long ago replaced the smaller bedroom that had originally been built as a nursery.

He opened the door to the smell of cedar, and neat color-coordinated rows of shirts, skirts and dresses. Sweaters dotted the built-in shelves. Little room remained for new additions to the floor-to-ceiling shoe racks.

At least the closet designer had done his job well. As had the maid, who helped keep it organized every time she hung up clothes fresh from the cleaners, the tailor or the shopping bags.

Where do you start when it's time to disassemble your mother's life? To put it in paper bags and deliver it to charity for a tax deduction?

He started with the blouses, folding them in thirds and tracking their number and quality. Then he moved on to the skirts, the slacks, the jeans, the dresses, the suits. The gowns remained in their individual hanging zippered bags. Everything else, the Laurens, the Kleins, the de la Rentas, the Chanel, all went through the same detailed process of recording, folding and bagging.

At one point, he sensed a set of eyes watching him from the distance of the hall. He paused, then heard footsteps walking away.

Over the hours, he moved methodically on to folded sweaters, shoes and lingerie, which unnerved him briefly. The process was mindlessly mechanical.

Finally, he focused on the smallish chest of drawers, where he knew he would find jewelry. Some of it could go to charity, the costume stuff. But much of it had value, serious value, and would be sent to an appraiser and then, possibly, to auction.

He had an eye for it, thanks in part to the influence of Kurt, and sorted through it, drawer by locked drawer. The loose watches, earrings and bracelets of the upper drawers were sorted into small boxes. The more valuable items -- most locked up and stored in their original boxes by Tiffany, Cartier and Leighton, were set carefully in a case provided by his father.

The lower unlocked drawers were larger than the others, and held scarves and random boxes and envelopes he did not recognize. He catalogued the scarves, then opened an oversized envelope.

It contained drawings, dozens of them, all in crayon, class projects from kindergarten and the lower grades that once decorated the refrigerator.

He felt as if he'd been punched in the chest. He fell back on his heels, let his ass hit the floor, and settled in. He looked at each drawing, recognizing many of them, stunned that his mother had carefully stored his Crayola masterworks with the Gucci and Bulgari.

His throat tightened as he continued through the drawer, through report cards and baby shoes, photos and award certificates. Under the papers, he found another jewelry box, not like the others, generic and weathered.

He opened it carefully, and found inside a familiar brooch: A ceramic gingerbread man he had made for his mother in a childhood art class.

"She wore it every Christmas," said a choked voice behind him. Caught off guard, Blaine spun around to see his father, his eyes red and puffy. "That stays."

And that's when it hit. Tears rolled down Blaine's cheeks as he thought of his mother and the ceramic pin that should have been tossed years before, but instead took the place of Tiffany and Cartier during the holidays, even in his absence.

He set it back in its box, back in its place, and sunk his chin to his chest.

"Dad?"

His father stepped into the closet and slowly, so slowly, knelt next to his son and put his hand on his shoulder. 

Blaine expected to flinch, but his body couldn't will it. Instead, he reached up, and covered his father's hand with his own. 

###