The day I realized my parents loved me was the same day they hurt me.

It was a Sunday, my least favorite day. I despised church. In a place that preached togetherness, I was strangely alone.

You can’t live like this anymore, the voice inside my head urged. The pastor was preaching, but I couldn’t hear him. One day, mom and dad will find out and everything will fall apart.

I can’t keep doing this, I thought. No more.

That’s when I realized I had to confess if I ever hoped to breathe again. When we arrived home, I sat my parents down. I spoke to them my truth, written on a wrinkled piece of notebook paper.

“Please accept me as I am,” I pleaded, crying. “I like girls, but I’m still your daughter. Nothing has changed.”

But to my parents, everything changed. My mother just sighed, and struggled to speak at all.

“Don’t be naive!” my dad shouted. In that moment, I realized how it felt to be afraid of him. “This world is wicked. You think that you, you’re bisexual, but you’re not! The devil has endless ways to trick us!” Even in my anger, I couldn’t find it in my heart to blame them. I loved them too much.

Home didn’t feel safe anymore. I ran away to my best friend’s house, barely intact. The only one there was her mom, and she graciously let me stay.

“What if they never understand?” I asked, frightened.

To this, she opened herself up to me, leaving herself vulnerable. She told me about her abusive ex-husband and the memories that would never fade.

“When I couldn’t take it anymore, I turned on the Christian radio and just took it in,” she told me. I hated God. He was the reason my parents were so distant, but in this moment, He was the reason she was so close. “I just told myself to have faith. That it would get better.” She turned fully to me, eyes clear and wise. “You must have faith.” she urged. “You can never forget this.”  

I always disregarded that sort of advice, but from her, I didn’t. Through her faith, she survived her war, and that was how I was to survive mine.

When I finally returned home that night, I went to see my mom in her room. Under the covers, I saw her figure shift. She never rested in bed unless she was dreadfully ill.

“Who turned you gay?” she whispered first.

“No one,” I whispered back. “I’m like this because it is just so.” No response. She wanted a tangible reason, someone to blame, but I couldn’t give it to her.

“I would not have chosen this path for you,” she said, tears streaming. It hurt seeing her cry. “We can change this together. We’ll help you. Okay?”

“I’m never going to change,” I wanted to scream. “Years will pass and I’ll still be gay! What will you do then? Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? What the hell are you waiting for?” I knew this brutal honestly would kill her, but I didn’t care. I was left with scars that would never quite heal, and I desperately wanted her to see it with her own two eyes.

But when I looked at her, I saw her fragility. Her humanity. God, that was my mom. Her abundant love and motherly sincerity was spilling over. I realized suddenly that her only hope was that this would all be forgotten, and I would be the same daughter in her memories.

I love you too much, I thought suddenly. I can’t say it. I’m sorry.

So I just said, quiet and distant, “Okay.”