“Mom, I think I might like girls,” a conversation I’ll never have with my mother.
“Mom,” I say.
She’s sitting on that brown couch watching Judge Judy, because Judge Judy is the only interesting thing to watch nowadays.
“Um, I’ve been thinking about myself lately...”
She turns to me questioningly, little sister and fake father sit around pretending not to hear but their ears are open for the first time, listening to the conversation I’ll never ever have with my mother.
“You’ve been thinking? About yourself?” She asks, she has a right to ask. I never think about myself.
And then, I nod. Because nodding seems so right in the moment.
“You see, I’ve never felt like I belonged. And as cliche as that might sound, I think for the first time, I know why.”
Poor, young me, sitting on that brown couch, staring at the blank wall with my mother’s eyes on her, trying to be brave.
She knows. She’s known for a while.
My mother told me a while ago that, “it’s not in the Bible, so it’s not welcome in my house.”
It’s not in the Bible.
I have to repeat it.
So I remember.
It’s not in the Bible, so it’s not welcome in this house.
I am not welcome in this house.
“I think I might like girls.”
mind grammatical errors my brain doesn’t have autocorrect.