I resist the urge to stab my fork through my hand.
“He’s got such a big heart,” she continues, voice dripping with sweetness. “We always thought he might even go into ministry. Didn’t we, Don?”
My dad doesn’t look up from his meatloaf. “Until he lost his way.”
Daniel’s jaw tightens. “Pretty sure he knows exactly where he’s going.”
“I mean spiritually,” Dad clarifies, like we’re too dumb to pick up on the passive-aggressive sermon they are trying to deliver. “There’s still time to come back. You’ve always been a good kid, Luke. The devil is clever. He uses temptation, confusion, even… unnatural urges.”
I blink. “Unnatural?”
Mom puts a hand on his arm likeLet me handle this, dear,but she doesn’t exactly redirect.
“Honey,” she says to me, “we know the world isconfusing right now. So many messages being pushed onto young people in the media. But God doesn’t make mistakes. He has a plan for you.”
“Right, and the way he made me,” I say, voice flat, “includes wanting a boyfriend who helps me pick glitter out for my cheek bones. And holds me at night.”
Mom’s smile falters. “You don’t have to be sodefensive, sweetheart. We’re not judging. We’re just worried about your soul.”
Daniel chokes on his water.
“Honestly,” Dad adds, “we’d rather you be alone than live in sin. That would show strength. Obedience, even.”
My stomach churns. I can feel every eye in the table boring into me, including Daniel’s, whose hand is still resting casually on my thigh as if he’s holding me together with his fingertips.
“You know what I’d really like?” I say, setting my fork down. “I’d like a dinner where we don’t pretend love comes with strings. Where I don’t have to earn your approval with celibacy or lies. Where being gay isn’t something you tolerate like traffic or gluten.”
Mom blinks rapidly. “We don’ttolerateyou, Luke. Weloveyou.”
“Then maybe try acting like it.”
The table goes quiet.
Daniel leans in and whispers, “Babe, we can leave. We’ve made an appearance.”
But I sit there, still, quiet, staring down at the half-eaten plate of lukewarm food that tastes like shame and overcooked forgiveness. Because I’m used to this. I’m always the one who has to be palatable. Forgiving.Safe.Even when I want to scream.
The rest of dinner passes in a series of tight smiles and saccharine comments.
“Luke always did like dressing up.”
“You two sure are close.”
“Maybe, someday, you’ll both find what you’re really looking for.”
By the time dessert hits the table, I feel like I’ve been dipped in honey and fed to wolves.
Daniel sets his fork down slowly, his polite smile still in place—but his eyes have shifted. Sharper now. Calculating.
“Actually,” he says, tone still friendly, “I think Luke’s already found it.”
My mom’s smile tightens. “Oh?”
Daniel leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Yeah. Confidence. Self-worth. Found family. The ability to survive an onslaught of micro-aggressions without flipping this table. You know, the important things.”
Dad shifts uncomfortably. “We’re just trying to help him. Guide him.”
“With condescension and judgment disguised as love?” Daniel arches a brow. “If that’s your idea of guidance, no wonder he stopped coming around.”
