Daddy live gay

We were on the back porch, smoke rolling up from the nearby barbeque grill, the emit of chicken roasting in the atmosphere. My father was more silent than usual. He took a hard swig from his beer bottle. I asked, “You okay?”

Out of nowhere, my father says, “If you choose to be gay, then you’re no longer part of this family. You want to live that lifestyle? Then do it somewhere else.”

His gaze drifted toward the woods. He didn’t want to watch at me. The thought of me, of what I was, sickened him. Shame overwhelmed me. Sweat soaked through my shirt as I held help the bile in my throat. I asked how he knew. My stepsister had outed me.

Stuttering, I tried to explain it wasn’t a selection. But at 18 years old (and caught completely off-guard), I had no defense. Not that it would own mattered. My father, as with so many parents, believed this was a clear-cut “black and white” situation. I either was or I wasn’t. And I was.

Within 48 hours my bags were packed. I looked advocate from the driveway, some part of me hoping my father would observe my terror and change his brain. He didn’t. His arms were crossed across his chest like a shield, unbudging, even as my stepmother pulled at him, tea