At that time, that was the closest I’d ever come to anyone knowing my secret.
I was Al and Melissa Walsh’s son, after all. Good, proper churchgoers who’d been issued a heavier burden than most by God, and yet they’d persevered.
I was their miracle. Their blessing. Their proof that their faith in God was justified.
And while my parents were far from rich, my father was well-known in the community and highly respected, because he helped keep the local farms running with his mechanical skills.
Now that I’d flown by myself, I ended up taking more trips to visit Mimi, sometimes even just a long weekend. She used any excuse she could to fly me down for visits.
Mimi never mentioned the evening she held me as I cried, but I met more of her friends from diverse backgrounds. I learned how to play mahjong, amazed everyone with my artistic skills, and realized that there was a rapidly deepening divide between me and my parents that couldn’t be sustained much longer.
I got to play drag queen one night and rocked a rendition of “Chapstick.”
Hallelujah.
My disguise was in serious danger of slipping and exposing me.
Then the summer between seventh and eighth grade happened.
