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He’s trying… and that’s more than I can say for the version of him last year. The one who forgot my birthday until there were only hours of it left.
I’ll take this one over the ghost roaming the halls and staring off into space any day.
Swallowing my mouthful of food, I take a sip of iced tea, washing it down, before speaking.
“I’m gay,” I say for the seventh time ever. This time, I meet my dad’s dark brown gaze, rather than tell the empty seat facing me.
I didn’t realize how shakily I said it the first time—the first time tonight, that is—not until this very moment when I hear how clearly and confidently my voice rings out across the otherwise silent room.
This isn’t a revelation, but a confirmation.
It’s making peace with the inevitable.
And I see that evidenced in my dad’s gleaming eyes, just as much as I feel it in the way my chest seems to expand, like my body is finally able to accept its first full breath of air since we sat down.
Dad’s mouth tightens at the corners and he nods a couple times. It takes him a second to find his voice, and when he does, it’s just three ragged words I haven’t heard from him in so long, that I can’t even remember when he last said them.
“I love you.”
My eyes grow hot, and tingles spread across my face. It’s doing that thing again, twitching and slackening, like it’s melting from my bones.
For one bright, hot, agonizing second…
I feel it.
All of it.
The burning in my chest…
Rage and resentment, bitterness and helplessness, and so much goddamn sadness that I don’t know how I’ve been able to stave it out for so long.
But then, just as quick as it makes itself known, that ice wall comes slamming back down before I can even decide if I’m brave enough to finally face it all, once and for all.
“Eva?” Dad says, still looking at me, his voice wavering the slightest bit.
My swallow goes down like glass.
He clears his throat, turns to look at Mom across the table, and says more firmly, “Eva.”
Chest tight, I hang my head, staring hard at my plate.
If I disappear, she’ll notice me…
“Y-yes?” a soft, distant voice says.
Chewing my lip, I peek over at the occupied seat on my right, and through a veil of messy blond hair long overdue for a trim, I watch Mom as she blinks out of her daze. Brows knitted. Lips turned down in a frown.
I don’t have to look at Dad to know he’s frowning too, but for different reasons.
A year ago, he wouldn’t have even noticed how withdrawn she is. Probably wouldn’t have cared much either.
Not because he didn’t want to… he just couldn’t.
Dr. Priatt made sure to drive that point home when we started our weekly sessions with a grief and family counselor a little under three months ago.
“It’s a capacity issue. Not a want issue. Think of what you’re going through as an illness. You can’t very well go to work or even visit with loved ones when you’re bedridden and unable to hold any food down. You want to get up. You want to eat. You want to be there for those you love. But you can’t. You need to ride it out. Listen to your body. Your mind. Give it what it needs to heal, even if that’s just time.”
Ironically enough, my Dad seems to be the only one really benefiting from the sessions. He still has his forums, sure, but he’s not spending 24/7 staring at a screen and chasing imaginary leads anymore.
