My mother wails a muffled moan into her cupped hands. My father sits sternly, still, stiff, rigid. My guts churn and boil as I think about what might happen now. What’s going to be next? Who’s going to speak? What can I say to make my mother stop crying? My father’s too in shock to even console her.

The moment I opened my mouth to speak regret overtook me. The small seed of remorse blossomed into a beautiful flower of self loathing once the words spilled out of my perverted mouth.

I look into my father’s eyes trying to see if his heart has any understanding, but I can’t see it. I watch his mouth try to form words. Silence. I don’t know what to do.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?! Can’t you see what this is doing to your mother?”

“There’s nothing I can do about it.”

 “Christ almighty! Of course there is. You can stop being a pervert! You were never like all the other kids, but a goddamn faggot?”

What can I say to that?

I lower my eyes because I can’t stand to watch my father’s heart shatter as his only son tries to explain he loves boys, or maybe it’s shame that makes me look away. My mother bawls.

 “Why? Why?”

She can’t understand. Neither of them can. It’s not in their heads to understand. As I stare at their shoes and the hard wood floor I imagine their faces. The creeks and valleys that make up my father’s, and the gentle paint brush speckles that have aged my mother. I picture them smiling. Tears are rolling down their eyes, but they seem to be of relief and happiness for me. I imagine them looking into my eyes with a deep understanding acceptance as liberation blankets my soul.

I look up from my brief dream of what’s too good to be true. My mother can’t look at me. The old man stares hard into my eyes. Even if I was still old enough to be punished there’s no punishment in his book suitable for this occasion, and if there was he’s probably scared it would get me off. He’s done his thinking and made up his mind.

“Listen boy, I don’t need everybody in town talking about how my son’s some sorta prissy faggot, so you keep your mouth shut and get outta here. Don’t you ever come back here.”

I’ve never seen a more serious man. My mother screams but I can’t quite hear it. There’s a sinking sickness in my gut that has all of my focus. In my head, memories of my parents showering their love on me burn.

My only real thought is to walk. I need to stand up. I’m watching myself as I somehow have the strength to get to my feet. I hold my head up and glance around at the house I grew up in. It seems strange, there’s something about it now that I can’t put my finger on.

“Whataya waiting for?”

I no longer have parents. I look at them one last time, and they seem like perfect strangers. My memories of them curl and blur like old photographs. I watch my feet move. I’m heading to the door. My shoes stumble and drag ungraciously as I walk out of the house.

I stand in a small neighbourhood as an orphan, but an honest man, a real man. I don’t know what to do, or where to go. My legs start to move again, and my feet start stepping as they take me away to somewhere, anywhere.