My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
“The pitcher, right?” I said carefully, keeping my voice neutral. “I saw something about it online.”
“It was very brave of him,” Mom said, and I couldn't read her tone. Approval? Discomfort? Something in between? “I can't imagine how hard that must be, with all the attention.”
I set my fork down. My appetite had vanished. “What do you guys think about it?”
There was a pause. Just a beat too long.
Dad took a drink of his beer and didn't say anything. His eyes stayed on his plate.
Mom dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Well... I think it's his life, isn't it? Who he loves is his business.”
It wasn't a condemnation. But it wasn't exactly acceptance either.
“But what do you think?” I pressed, hating how my voice sounded. “Like... if someone you knew came out. Would it bother you?”
Mom looked uncomfortable now. She glanced at Dad, but he was studying his lasagna like it held the secrets of the universe. No help there.
“I don't know, honey,” she said finally. “I suppose it would depend on the person. I mean, I'd want them to be happy, of course. But it's... complicated, isn't it? With family, and church, and what people think...”
What people think.
I picked up my fork again and shoved lasagna into my mouth so I wouldn't have to respond. It tasted like cardboard now, but I chewed and swallowed and reached for my water.
“Why do you ask?” Mom's voice was careful, and when I looked up, she was watching me with that expression that said she was trying to figure out if this was about something specific.
“Just curious,” I lied.
“Well, I think it's very brave,” she said again, like saying it twice would make it more convincing. “I'm sure his family is very supportive.”
I wondered if that was true.
Dad finally spoke up. “Pass the garlic bread.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
I helpedMom with the dishes because that's what I always did, and because the routine of it was soothing. Wash, rinse, dry, put away. Simple. Manageable. No room for thoughts about coming out or what my parents would say or whether I'd still be welcome at this table if they knew.
“You sure you're okay, honey?” Mom asked quietly while Dad was in the bathroom. “You seem... off.”
“I'm good, Ma. Just tired.”
“You're working too hard.”
“It's hockey season. It's supposed to be hard.”
She dried her hands and turned to face me, and I saw the worry in her eyes. The same worry that had been there when I was twelve and got into my first fight on the ice. When I was sixteen and broke my collarbone. When I was twenty-one and signed my first contract and moved away.
“You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?”
“Of course,” I said, and kissed her forehead. “I'm fine. Promise.”
I left around eight-thirty with a container of leftover lasagna and Mom's instructions to “get some sleep, for God's sake.” The drive back to my apartment took twenty minutes, and I spent all of it replaying that conversation at dinner.
Some part of me had always known that this was how it would go. Mom wasn't cruel. She'd never kick me out or disown me. But she'd worry. She'd ask what people would say. She'd make it about her, about how it reflected on the family, about what the neighbors and the church ladies and her book club would think.
And Dad... Dad would say nothing at all.
