by Evan Goodrich.

A nervous tension gripped us in the living room. The only noise in the room was that of Ann Curry on Dateline NBC and the click clacking of my fingers on the keyboard. Just my mother and I, sitting alone in that room. We had fought, yet again. It was getting harder and harder to keep my secret from her. It was like that feeling of impending sickness. Only instead of bile, it would be words. At that time, I would have preferred the former.

She had scolded me for constantly being on the computer and talking to people online. Well, one person in particular, really, but she didn’t know that. She couldn’t know. But she had to at some point. She had to know the reason why.

At that moment, the urge to tell her felt paramount. She had to know the truth about me, the reason behind all my depression and secrecy over the years.

I glanced around and picked up a piece of paper. I grabbed a pen and began to write, my shaky, sweaty hand making it difficult to write the few simple words I had to say. My shirt too became damp with seat. My nerves were close to overpowering me. But I was intent on telling my mother what I had to say, what she had to hear.

The tread to the couch from the chair seemed to last forever. The whole time I couldn’t stop changing my mind, tell her or not tell her.

I had finally reached the couch where my mother sat, every muscle in my body petrified. My nervous hand reached out and gave her the folded piece of paper that held the answer to so many of the questions she asked.

I walked back to the depths of the house and sat down in the hallway, listening for a reaction. It wasn’t long before I heard something, the sound of my mother crying.

I knew how much it must have hurt her to know the truth, even if she probably already knew. Yet at that moment, all I could feel was anger. Anger toward her, for crying because of who I am, anger towards myself, for telling her and forever changing our relationship.

That night I told my mother I was gay.

Trusting that your parents will understand and your relationship with them will still be okay is the hardest thing to do. I had to have faith in her and hope that she would be okay with it and understand it someday.

Two years later, things are different between us. She worries about how hard my life will be, she asks stupid questions about my sexuality and it’s hard not to get angry at her. But despite this, I couldn’t be happier about the decision I had made then. Things between us still aren’t perfect and she still doesn’t entirely understand. But things will be okay.

It just takes time.