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Why is this always an inevitable conversation at Thanksgiving? As if being forced to be around family isn’t already hard enough. Not to mention, the way she asks the question makes it feel extra personal.
“No,” I simply respond.
“Well, you still have plenty of time. There are some nice girls at church who I’m sure would be interested in meeting you.” I don’t miss the way she says “girls.” Again, intentionally ignoring that I’m bisexual. Everything is wrapped in Midwestern politeness fueled by ignorant subtext.
After I came out to them in college, I dated a girl named Jessica, so I think they hoped my sexuality was a “phase” or something. That I’d lost my way and found it again, or some bullshit. It’s fucked, classic bi erasure, and I wish I could blame the strain I feel in my family on that, but that’d be a lie. It’s always existed between us.
“Any men?” I ask, stirring the pot.
Mom’s whole face drops mid-reach for her wine glass. Just for a second, it’s like the mask actually slips at the reminder of who I am. She was probably hoping I’d let it go the way I always used to. But there’s no rug left in this house that’s big enough to sweep this under—not after twenty-three years of trying. She looks uncomfortable, and something unwelcome twists in my chest before I catch it and shove it back down where it belongs. I don’t need to start feeling sorry for her. She’s had every chance to accept me and has chosen not to.
I also don’t miss the not-so-subtle way Sean’s face twists as he mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “disgusting.”
My family is still quiet, and I don’t care to fill it. Their discomfort with who I am is not my problem. But of course, Lily—always the peacekeeper—speaks up, trying to break the tension. “How’s the apartment?”
“Good.”
“Rent outrageous?” Sean chimes in with a snicker as if my life is a joke to him.
“Yep.” I’m not trying to defend my choices. “You know,” I add before I can stop myself, turning to my parents, “I love it there. My neighborhood, my job, all of it. It’s cool and diverse. There’s always something happening.”
I don’t know why I say it since half of that isn’t even true. My job is soul-crushing, some days more than others, but I find something satisfying in handing them a glorified version of my life, just to make it clear I don’t regret my decisions. Because I don’t. I just don’t think Chicago, or the job, is the right fit for me anymore. But starting over somewhere else sounds exhausting. So I’ll stay. For now.
“Mm,” Dad hums.
“That’s nice,” Mom dismisses, already turning back to Lily. “Have you thought more about your florals?”
Just like that, I’m reminded they don’t care. So I shouldn’t either.
The worst part is that I keep hoping things will be different. Every time I come home, some small, stupid part of me thinks maybe this visit will be different. Where Mom asks about my life and wants to hear the answers. Where Dad looks up from whatever he’s more focused on and finally sees me.
It never is. I knew that before I got here, and I came anyway.
If only I could cut the thread. But I can’t. Not completely, because they’re my family, and some part of me still needs them to love me and accept me the way I am, even though I know they can’t. Even though every visit leaves me feeling smaller, more exhausted, more convinced something is wrong with me. It’s something my psychiatrist, Dr. Patel, and I talk about often, but I always come back to the same question: If I don’t have them, who will I have?
No one. Not really.
They’ve never understood why I left and why I chose to pay three times as much to live in a city where I don’t know anyone. My parents have lived in Bloomington their whole lives, worked the same job for decades, and never found any point in going anywhere else. To them, leaving is running away.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe that’s exactly what I’ve been doing this whole time. Running toward some place or some person who’d make me feel less like I’m floating alone on this giant rock, but so far, I haven’t found it.
Thankfully, Mom starts cleaning up the table, and later, when I’m alone in the kitchen, Lily corners me for a second while she’s getting a drink from the fridge.
“Sean didn’t mean anything by the comment earlier,” she whispers, not quite meeting my eyes. “He just gets weird when he’s had a few.”
“Sure.”
“I just don’t want today to be a whole thing, you know?” She says it like she’s asking me to do her a favor and put who I am on the back burner for the holiday so we can all get along.
“It’s fine, Lily.”
It’s not, and I think some part of her already knows that since she won’t hold eye contact, but I let her have it anyway. Arguing with her won’t fix Sean, or my family, and she still remains the only person in this house who’s ever sort of tried with me, even if trying looks like asking me to just swallow it one more time.
She squeezes my arm once before heading back to the living room, but instead of joining them, I walk up the stairs. I momentarily think about driving back tonight, but lying in my dark room alone while I stare at the water stain and think about Evan sounds better.
I can’t help but wonder what Evan’s family is like. Is his Thanksgiving going the same as mine? Has his family made him feel like shit for leaving, or did they just let him go? Maybe even supported him?
