“They wouldn’t have understood, and I didn’t want them asking too many questions. So, I just kind of panicked and went with it.”
“Sweetie, what are you running away from?” she asks gently, giving me a softer look.
I push my plate away with a sigh, folding my arms on the counter and putting my head down. “I feel like an idiot. Can we leave it at that?”
“Nope. Not in this house.”
Groaning, I sit up and open my mouth to reply, but my throat suddenly goes tight, and I can’t get any words out. Fear and anxiety surface as I realize I’m about to come out to my mom. There was never a doubt that I would when I came down here, but I didn’t think it would be this hard to talk about it either. My heart is racing, and there’s this overwhelming sensation that I’ve done something wrong and am about to confess my crimes. Is that normal?
Growing up, I read a lot of coming-out stories online that ended with parents disowning their children because they found the concept of being homosexual immoral and disgusting. It didn’t matter if the kid was only sixteen or twenty-three. They were kicked out of their homes and thrown out of their familieslike they weren’t living, breathing, human beings, but trash instead. A child raised from infancy, suddenly discarded. Like coming out as gay was the deal-breaker to their parents’ love. Conditional. Heartbreaking.
I remember reading thread after thread of stories like this and crying for these strangers on the internet because I couldn’t even begin to imagine what I would do if my parents disowned me for something like that. Something that wasn’t achoice. I knew my mom and dad’s views on gay rights were very progressive compared to most people, but it didn’t stop me from wondering if they would react similarly if their only son turned out to be gay. As if their positive views would disintegrate the moment it actually happened tothem. I just never imagined that there might come a time to test it out.
It's irrational, but I can’t fight the dread creeping up, telling me that this may be the moment my mom decides she doesn’t love me anymore.
But then I have to remind myself that this is mymom. The woman who has stood up in countless marches and protests throughout her life, fighting against injustice. The same woman who had a framed picture in our guest bathroom of her mugshot from her first arrest in the 70s, protesting the Kent State Massacre and the Vietnam War. My mother, who flew to Washington DC by herself for the Women’s March in 2017, protesting among almost half a million people wearing a hot pink Pussyhat with pride.
Thatwoman would never disown me for something like this.
I take a deep breath, dragging my hands through my hair and over my face. I can do this.
“I like someone,” I say grudgingly. It still feels strange admitting it out loud.
Mom processes the words for a second before scrunching her face in confusion. “Youliedto your friends and ran away to visitme because youlikesomeone,” she says, seeking confirmation. “Who is this girl, and what has she done that’s gotten you so worked up?”
I swallow hard and clarify, “He.”
“He?” Mom frowns, cocking her head to the side before her eyes widen, and she snaps upright with new understanding. “Oh.Oh! He? Really?”
I nod sheepishly.
“God damn it!” she exclaims, taking me by surprise. At first, I’m nervous that I was right to be worried, but then she continues. “If your dad were alive, he’d owe me fifty bucks, the son of a bitch.”
“What?” I recoil, blinking with confusion. Of all the things I could have imagined she would say after learning her only son likes men, that wasn’t one of them.
Mom groans—rather dramatically, I might add. “We had a bet when you were younger. I was convinced you might be gay, but your dad always thought I was delusional. So, ha! Fuck you, Theo, if you’re listening!” Mom laughs, shaking her fist toward the sky. Then she turns to me, grinning excitedly. “So, who is he? Tell me everything.”
I stare at her with a slack jaw, dumbfounded. “Wait. Go back. You and Dad used to bet on whether or not I’d be straight? Youknewthere was a possibility I might like guys?”
“Well, it wasn’t like I knew for sure. But ever since you were a kid, I noticed little things where I always thought, ‘maybe.’But then, you never seemed to pursue it. I mean, for a while, I was convinced you had a crush on Marcus, except I never doubtedhewas straight.”
“Marcus?” I nearly shout in dismay. My childhood best friend, the one I’ve grown up and done everything with since we were six? The man who kept me alive when I was at my lowest point?There’s no way I was ever interested in him… Was I? Oh, god. I can’t handle thinking aboutthatright now.
With my outburst, Mom seems to realize I’m not taking this as jovially as she is. She walks around the island and sits in the chair beside me, gently rubbing her hand on my back, her brows knit together with concern.
“Are you just figuring this out?” she asks softly. “You never considered it before now?”
“No! And apparently, I’m the last to know! Why didn’t you ever talk to me about it if you were so convinced?”
“I wanted to, but your dad told me not to interfere. It was the kind of thing you’d come to us with when you were ready. But as you got older, you only seemed interested in dating women, so I figured it wasn’t worth bringing up. Like maybe I misread it. You’re trulyjust realizing it?”
“Yeah.” I drop my head in my hands, groaning miserably.
“Is that what’s got you so worked up?”
“I guess. Maybe? Fuck, I don’t know. It surprised me. I mean, shouldn’t I have alwaysknownI was into men? Gay guys always seem to know right away that they’re gay. I’m thirty-five andjustfiguring it out. Does that mean I’m broken?”
“Of course not, you doofus,” Mom chides, lightly hitting my arm. “There’s no right or wrong timeline for coming into your sexuality. Even if you are thirty-five when you’re first discovering it. And it’s understandable, honestly.”
