The channel is on some Hallmark movie, my mom’s favorite kind to watch, when the commercials begin. The trailer for Write Anything starts playing. Seeing myself and Logan on the screen is like a shock of ice-cold water. Makes sense, schedule-wise, since we’ve been in post-production for a while, but that world—the movie, LA, Logan—felt separate from my life here in Decatur.
My mom claps with excitement and grabs the remote to turn the volume up. I glance at my dad. He’s staring at the screen, expression blank. I overheard my mom telling him about the trouble I’d been in one night, while they were sitting in the kitchen and I was passing by in the hall, but when I paused to hear what my dad thought of it all, there was only silence.
Romantic, inspirational music plays as different shots appear on the screen. Logan running through the rain. Me, turning to look over my shoulder at the viewer. A split screen as we furiously type, engulfed in anger for each other.
The voiceover: “But can the power of story transform their hatred into love?” A shot as we turn to each other, contemplating kissing. I wish Logan were here so that he could say something sarcastic, and so that I could laugh with him. “Write Anything. Rated PG-13…”
My mom shakes my shoulder excitedly. I grin up at her from my spot on the floor, and we bend to each other for a hug as she tousles my hair. “I’m never going to get tired of seeing you on my TV screen,” she says.
“Thanks, Mom.”
I look at my dad to see if he’s going to say anything just as he stands up and walks past without a word.
“I’m sorry, Mattie,” my mom says. “Habits are hard to let go.”
I have a flinch of anger, hearing that. It’s a habit to hate your son? But I’m not really upset at her. What do I expect her to do? Divorce him for me? A part of me wishes she would make a mighty stand like that, but it wouldn’t be fair to expect that she destroy her entire life because of the way my father treats me.
I need to figure out my relationship with my dad—that isn’t my mom’s responsibility—and after everything with Logan, I’m feeling more and more like I need to speak. Say something, instead of sitting silently. My father has made me feel so ashamed to be me. Not only the fact that I’m gay, but ashamed of my entire existence. It’s like his hatred of my identity has begun to sink into my layers, poisoning my body and my love for myself. I’m tired of having so much shame for who I am and hiding myself away in a shell.
My mom’s mumbling that she has to call so-and-so to see if they’ve seen the trailer yet. I tell her I’ll be right back. I follow my dad down the hall and to his office. He hasn’t closed the door, so he sees me when I step into the threshold. He looks like he’s just getting comfortable at the desk when I walk in.
We watch each other for a long moment. We’re used to silence with each other, but this time instead of looking for an escape path, I’m trying to find the right words.
“I know that you don’t accept me,” I tell him. “That really messed me up for a long time. Made me ashamed of myself.”
He sits straighter in his seat, raising his chin. I’m afraid. I shouldn’t have to be. Not of him—not anymore.
“But I want you to know that I’ve let go of that shame.” I pause. “I’m working on letting it go, anyway. I deserve to love myself and who I am. I deserve to be respected and loved and to feel free to be me. I deserve better from you.”
I stand there, waiting. It feels like an eternity. I’m just starting to think he’s refusing to speak when he opens his mouth. “You—being gay was never right when I was young,” he tells me. “It was always a sin. I still think it’s a sin now.”
“If you don’t accept this part of me, then you don’t love me.”
He looks away. “You’re my son,” he says. “I love you because you’re my son. I don’t love this part of you.”
I’m going to cry. I’d feel embarrassed, I think, of my emotion once—especially here, in front of my dad as he rejects me. But maybe it’s a little act of rebellion that I let my eyes well up. “No. You can’t love me if you don’t love that I’m gay. And if you can’t love me, then I can’t have a relationship with you.”
We never had much of a relationship to begin with, but saying it out loud—it feels like I’ve taken some power back from him. He’s made his hatred and disgust obvious. Now, I’ve made my love for myself just as clear.
He’s never liked losing power. “Fine. This is my house. You can leave.”
I watch him for a second, before I decide that there isn’t any point in arguing. There isn’t any point in trying to change his mind—in convincing him that I’m worth more than this. I deserve a safe space, and right now, this house isn’t it. I leave the office for my bedroom without another word and begin to pack, grabbing my backpack and opening my drawers. My mom is confused when she looks up at me as I walk into the kitchen, pulling her reading glasses off.
“Where’re you going?”
“Dad told me to get out.” I lean in to kiss her cheek goodbye, but she pulls away.
“What?”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Well—it’s not okay that he’s doing this, but I want to leave now, too.”
“No, no,” she says, hand on my arm. “Wait. Let me speak to him.”
I sit down at the counter, but only because she asked me to. I can hear the argument escalating in the office, until finally my mom comes back. “You can stay, Mattie,” she says.
“Has he told you that he accepts me?”
She hesitates. “No, but—”
“Then I have to leave,” I say, standing up from the counter. “I deserve better.” I might’ve felt guilty, once. I might’ve been afraid that I was tearing the family apart. But my dad is the one who has decided not to love me. I can’t take responsibility for what he does.
“Where’re you going to go?” she asks, exasperated.
“I’ll just stay in a hotel in the city.” My flight back to LA is in a couple of days anyway.
She looks like she’s considering arguing. A part of me is annoyed with her. I’m not the one who needs to be convinced to put my energy into making peace. My dad is the one she should be focusing on. Maybe she figures out the same thing.
“All right,” she says. She’s getting teary-eyed. This is a stressful way to end our visit. “Call me when you’re settled in the hotel, okay?”
I hug her goodbye. It’s only when I’m back in the car I rented, engine on, that I sit for a second. My adrenaline is pumping, so I don’t think I’m even aware of my emotions. I let myself feel the anger and the fear and the broken heart. I’m heartbroken that my dad doesn’t love me. One thing that’s not there, though? Shame.
I turn my music on, roll down the windows, and start singing as I pull out of the drive.
Logan
Not sure how much time has passed. Maybe a couple of days. I don’t have enough energy to do anything but lie on the couch. When depression hits, it’s too late to realize I’m caught in it.