A Family’s Sorrow - 1. A Family’s Sorrow

A Family’s Sorrow

by Nick

It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, but it was the easiest decision in the world for me to make. I had no other options. If I hadn’t done it, I would probably have died. Maybe I wouldn’t have been killed, but then again, maybe I would have. But regardless, I would have died. I would have chosen to take my own life over continuing the charade.

As the car I was riding in sped down Interstate 64 toward Williamsburg, Virginia, I thought back on the events that led to my separation from my mother.

I know she tried. No one had to tell me that. I watched her struggle when I was little. She went to school and worked, the whole time trying to make sure I had a hot meal on the table by six in the evening. My dad was a non-factor for the most part until I was thirteen, and to tell the truth, I hardly missed him. I used to see him occasionally when I visited with my grandparents in Yorktown, but that was the extent of it.

The funny thing about it was that my mom never badmouthed my dad, despite the fact that he had pretty much left us high and dry. I have vague memories of my mom and dad being married, but I was so young when they divorced that I have nothing substantial to point to and say, “Yeah, I remember that.”

My mom always kept old photo albums, though, and they were full of pictures from before I was born and when I was really little. My folks looked happy in them, and according to my mom, they were. She said they had a friendly divorce, too, and that we had no reason to be bitter about my dad’s parting. It was a mutual decision, she said, and it was for the best.

My name is Joshua Hunt. I’m 14 years old and have lived with my mother in Virginia Beach, Virginia my whole life. We were generally happy, and I can’t say that I’ve been abused or mistreated. My mother, Janet Forrest, has never laid a hand on me. In fact, and she has always provided for me. As a single mom, she clawed her way up from nothing to give me everything I could have asked for materially. She didn’t do drugs, and she wasn’t an alcoholic. I didn’t have an abusive stepfather, or any stepfather for that matter. My mom never remarried, and I never gave it a second thought.

When I was eleven, I figured out that I was gay. It was as if someone had turned a light on and I was suddenly aware of something I had known my whole life. I could remember being five and watching TV, admiring the cute guys on commercials and in television shows. There was one particular toothpaste commercial for Oral B that showed a man with a towel around his neck, and I always envisioned his naked body in my imagination. I didn’t realize the brevity of my feelings, though, until one day it clicked in my head.

When I was twelve a local congressman named Ed Schrock was outed on the news as a closet homosexual. He was a Republican, so it was a huge shock to everyone in our district, including my mom, who stood in front of the television shaking her head in disbelief while I wondered what the problem was.

“I’m gay too,” I blurted out before I even realized what I was saying.

“Don’t say that honey,” my mom said in a casual tone. “It’s not funny to make fun of other people that way.”

I looked up at her and shook my head, feeling a little bit confused, then I repeated myself.“No, I’m really gay, mom,” I said. “I like guys.”

“Josh are you sure?” she asked cautiously, looking at me sideways with an unsure expression.

“I’m sure mom,” I answered, feeling confident in myself now that I had come out. I waited for her response, but there wasn’t one. Instead, she sat down on the couch and turned her attention to the television, almost as if she were shutting me out.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but in that moment, the dynamic of my relationship with my mom had changed for good. She had always been supportive of me and of everything I wanted to experience. When I told her I wanted to be a pilot, she said she’d pay for me to take flying lessons as soon as I was finished with high school. When I wanted to learn more about building web pages, networking and constructing a site, she got me a Blade Server from IBM. When I wanted to play soccer, she coached my team. There was nothing in the world she wouldn’t have done for me.

Right up to that moment.

After that, there was nothing. I mean, she still bought me plenty of material items, and she let me try out for any sport I wanted to try out for. I was sure that she was still going to pay for my flying lessons, too, if I still wanted them after graduation. But that wasn’t what I missed.

What was missing was her touch. Her hugs, her kisses, her affection and her love. Maybe deep down she still loved me, but after the day I told her I was gay, she never showed it. I still hugged and kissed her, but the coldness in her touch was like a knife in my heart. She never hugged me back, and she avoided my kiss every time I tried.

For two years it went on that way, and for two years, I would lie alone in my room and cry myself to sleep because I knew she hated who I was. She didn’t want her son to be gay. She wanted a straight son who would give her grandchildren one day.

But I couldn’t be that for her, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was gay, and there was no changing that. When I was thirteen I told my grandparents what was happening at home and they said to give her time to adjust. When things didn’t change I considered suicide but didn’t have enough contempt for myself to go through with it. Maybe it was vanity that kept me from ending my own life, but I knew I wanted to live in spite of my mother’s rejection.

For two years she never spoke an ill word to me about being gay. She acted as if she had no knowledge of the fact, even though I had spelled it out for her in plain English. There’s no clearer way for someone to come out of the proverbial closet than to say the words, I’m Gay.

It finally became too much for me when school started in September. It was the end of summer and a return to the normal routine I had grown accustomed to, but it was also the beginning of my high school career. I needed some moral support at home because I was feeling nervous about a lot of things. Mainly, I was scared of what was going to happen when a large group of people I had never met before found out that I was an out of the closet gay boy. I was also afraid that my classes were going to be too hard and that I was going to be lost on campus.

The night before school started I tried to talk to my mom about my anxiety but she brushed me off, saying she had a ton of paper work to get done for work and that maybe we could talk later. I knew what that meant, though. It meant that she didn’t want to give me the time of day. That she was feeling disgusted by her gay son and she didn’t want to be reminded of her biggest disappointment, me.

I cried that night until one in the morning, feeling scared and rejected at the same time and wishing that God would just take my life from me. I loved my mom more than anything in the world and she had continuously stomped on my heart until I couldn’t take the heart ache anymore. I knew I had to do something, but I was totally unprepared for the step I was about to take.

I remember calling my dad on the phone one afternoon on the first week of school. I don’t remember what day it was, and I honestly don’t know what compelled me to do it, either. Yet, there I was, dialing his number, wondering if he was even going to be home to answer the phone. It rang twice before he answered it, and as soon as I heard his voice, I knew it was too late to change my mind, and at the same time, I wondered why I had done it.

My father, Stephen Hunt, is an intellectual to say the least. He teaches at The College of William and Mary, and he always has something to do. I would always read about him in the newspaper and wonder how he found the time to be so involved. It seemed like he had twelve different causes that he was trying to help, and he was as passionate about one as he was the others. He was constantly giving speeches around Virginia and up in Washington DC about being socially responsible.

I had always just assumed that he had forgotten to be responsible for my mother and me. He never came over or called. He just assumed, I guessed, that he would see me in Yorktown when we were at my grandparents’ house. We did, too, and it was never a bad time. I just figured he had things that were more important to him when he wasn’t around and I was able to shrug it off. So why, in my needy state, I was calling him of all people was anyone’s guess.

“Hello,” he said in a plain voice when he answered.

“Um, dad?” I said cautiously, wondering if I was bothering him.

“Josh?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I almost whispered, feeling insecure about speaking to him on the phone.

“Are you okay son?” he asked with a hint of concern in his voice, and I realized at that point what an oddity it was that I had called him.

“Um, I’m okay,” I said shyly. “I just wanted to say hi to you, I guess.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, sounding relieved. “Then, hello.”

“Hi,” I said awkwardly after clearing my throat.

“So how are you doing son?” he asked, and I cleared my throat again before I answered.

“Everything’s going good,” I fibbed, and I could tell he had picked up on my lie right away but wasn’t letting on.

“Well I’m glad to hear that, Josh,” he said. “How’s high school?”

That did it. My voiced cracked and I let out a small sob, but I quickly got myself under control and cleared my throat yet again before I answered.

“It’s going good,” I said. “How are you?”

“Well honestly, Josh, I’m a little worried,” he said, and I started to panic because I wasn’t sure what he was worried about. I was scared he was going to tell me that one of my grandparents was sick or something.

“About what?” I asked, dreading his answer.

“Josh, tell me the truth,” he said sadly. “Is everything really okay?”

That’s when it all came pouring out of me. The sadness, the despair, the anger and the hopelessness. I told him the whole story and waited for his rejection, perhaps in the form of him hanging up on me, but it never came. Instead, I was inundated with questions about my mother. I told him how she hadn’t touched me in two years and that I was desperate just to hear her tell me that she loved me.

The whole time I was spilling my guts to my dad, the fact that he had been an absent figure in my life was racing through my mind but it wasn’t making me bitter at all. Instead I found it odd that I was so easily able to bare my soul to him about being gay and wishing I could change and be straight.

“Don’t say that son,” he lectured me. “You’re a beautiful young man, and trust me; your mom feels the same way. Maybe she’s just having a hard time coping with the reality of it. That’s understandable.”

“She’s had two years, dad,” I said tearfully. “She doesn’t love me anymore.”

“What do you have planned for this weekend?” he asked, and I was sure he was trying to change the subject.

“Nothing,” I answered, still sniffling a little as I tried to get my crying under control.

“Do you think you’d like to spend a weekend with your old man?” he asked, and I had to blink for a moment. I can only imagine what the half of a minute of silence must have seemed like to my dad, the half of a minute that it took me to digest what he said. When I didn’t answer him, he asked again. “Well? What do you say, Josh?”

The trip to my dad’s house wasn’t as long as I had envisioned it to be. Technically he lives in Williamsburg, but in all actuality, he lives in a community known as Norge, which I guess could be considered a suburb of Williamsburg. His house sits back about a thousand feet from the edge of a quiet street, and his property is lush with evergreens. There are small hills covered with moss and rocks all around his house, and a small creek runs right at the edge of the back of his property. I had never seen such a beautiful setting in real life. On TV it seemed like a reality that was hundreds of miles away from where I lived, but I never thought I’d have the chance to stand in the midst of something so breathtaking.

I have to admit that I felt like a stranger in my dad’s house. It had been years since we had slept under the same roof, and I had an awkward feeling about being alone with him. To his credit, though, he did his best to make me feel at home. When I asked for permission to use his bathroom he told me in no uncertain terms that his house was my house, and that I never had to ask permission to use the bathroom, or for that matter, anything else. If I was hungry, I was to get something to eat. Anything. If I was thirsty, the same rule applied. If I wanted to watch TV, turn it on.

By the end of our weekend I was totally at ease and sorry that Sunday had come so soon. He took me home and told me to call him on Thursday if I wanted to come again the following weekend. Before he left, he sat down with my mom at the kitchen table and they spoke at length about a number of things. When the topic at hand drifted to my weekend visits, my mom made it clear that she was fine with him taking me on the weekends if that was what we wanted to do. It was odd because for a brief moment in time, it seemed like my mom was actually concerned with my well-being. Before my dad left, he gave my mom and me a hug and reminded me to call him on Thursday so he could be free on Friday afternoon to come and get me.

I wish I could say that things between my mother and I got better, but I can’t; in fact, if nothing else, they seemed to worsen. She seemed sated with the knowledge that I was forging a relationship with my dad after all of those years, and it gave her the opportunity to further extricate herself from my life, at least emotionally. She continued to buy me the material things I wanted, like Air Force Ones and Ray Bans, both of which cost her more money than I thought they would.

During the week she seemed to disappear after dinner. She would be in the house, but it was always in her office or her sewing room. If she wasn’t there, she was in her room with the door closed where she wouldn’t have to deal with my neediness. The more she withdrew from what was left of our mother-son relationship, the more I turned to my dad for the emotional nurturing I couldn’t get at home.

The final straw for me came on Thanksgiving. The two of us had been invited to go to my grandparents’ house in Yorktown for dinner, but my mom declined the offer, saying that she wanted to stay home and cook. I, in turn, also declined the invitation. I knew my dad and grandparents were disappointed but they understood. I didn’t want my mom to be by herself on Thanksgiving, so I decided to stay home and keep her company.

I got up early to help her prepare for our meal, which she cooked to perfection. The turkey was beautiful and big, the stuffing smelled great and the rolls were golden brown and brushed with real butter. She even baked a pumpkin pie for dessert. I went upstairs to change for supper, and when I got back downstairs, she was gone. Her car was in the driveway, but she wasn’t in the vicinity of the kitchen. I looked around the house for her and when I found her, she was in her office, working with her computer.

“Are you almost ready for dinner?” I asked, not wanting to start without her.

“Oh you can go ahead,” she said casually, not looking me in the eye. “I’m not really in the mood.”

I know that it seems petty, but for whatever reason, my feelings were hurt beyond repair. I turned and walked away without another word. I went straight to my room and closed the door so I could cry in peace. I laid on my bed and cried into my pillow for hours, wishing I had never been born and wondering why I had ever come out to my mother.

That night I called my dad and tearfully told him everything. He asked me to get my mom on the phone, which I promptly did. What followed was the most horrendous shouting I had ever witnessed in my life, and it was all coming from my mom. Words I had never heard her say were flowing from her mouth like venom, her voiced carrying itself down the hallway to my room.

One thing I can say about my mom is that I have never heard her use a homophobic term in my life. They were no more allowed in our home than racially charged words and phrases, and for that I give her credit. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the compassion that she showed to total strangers when I needed it for myself. I know that in my life up to now, there is no one in this world who holds a piece of my heart as big as the one my mother holds. I love her more than anyone in this world, and that made the choice I had to make so hard.

When my dad told me I was welcome to live with him, I readily agreed to take him up on his offer. My heart was aching when I told my mom that I had decided to go live with my dad, and I was sobbing uncontrollably. I know why I was sobbing, but it was as if it meant nothing to her. She never touched me, but in a rather blasé fashion, she asked me if I was sure that was what I wanted. When I told her I was, she said she understood and asked me when I was planning to go. She reminded me that it might be in my best interest to wait for the school semester to end so I could start with a clean slate in Williamsburg.

Actually packing my stuff was next to impossible. I kept my door closed and sobbed as I worked, still not able to believe that I was going through with it. I even had second thoughts, but when my mom didn’t even knock at my door or try to talk to me that day, I knew I was doing the right thing. About an hour before my dad was going to be there, I curled up on my bed one more time and inhaled the scent of my sheets. As I lay there, I thought back over the events that led up to my leaving, and again, I kicked myself for being so stupid.

When I got in my dad’s car, I could see my mom standing in the doorway, watching us with a look of regret on her face. I wanted to tell my dad to stop and get out of the car so I could run to her and tell her it wasn’t too late, but I knew better. I was doing the right thing, and I knew I needed to go through with it.

As we drove away from Virginia Beach and into Norfolk, the sun went down leaving us in total darkness except for the headlights of the cars all around us. I’m not sure if my dad could hear me sniffling or not, but I had tears streaming down my cheeks as we sped down the interstate. As we approached the Bridge Tunnel that would take us through the mouth of the James River, my dad reached over and took my hand in his.

“It’s going to be okay, bud,” he promised. “I’ll be home to make sure this goes as smoothly as you need it to be.”

“Okay dad,” I said sadly through my tears, wiping them away with the sleeve of my coat.

When we got out of the car the first thing I noticed was that the temperature in Norge seemed to be about twenty degrees lower than in Virginia Beach. It chilled me to the bone, and I wondered how often the temperature would be so low.

That night I stayed up late unpacking, putting things where I wanted them and getting used to my new room. My dad popped in from time to time to make sure I was alright, but for the most part, he gave me my privacy. I unpacked almost all of the boxes I had brought with me, and what I didn’t get unpacked, I set off to the corner of my room for the next day. I finished for the night by unpacking my suitcase and hanging my clothes, then I turned in for the evening.

When I woke up the next day my bedroom door was wide open and my room seemed to be brighter than I had remembered it being during the weekends I had spent with my dad. It almost seemed like a white glare was coming through my window, so I pulled the blinds back to investigate. What I saw made me gasp.

“You’re up!” my dad exclaimed from behind me as I peeked out the window.

“Wow, it’s snowing hard,” I said, honestly shocked at the sheer volume of snow that was coming down.

“I would say so, son,” he said in a jovial tone. “That’s usually what happens in a blizzard.”

“No way,” I said in disbelief. “It’s a blizzard?”

“Live and in real color, Josh,” he said with a smile and a thoughtful tone. “It’s one of nature’s miracles, son.”

I got myself ready and went to the kitchen, where he had breakfast waiting for me. I scarfed down a plate of eggs and bacon, then I accompanied him to the garage and watched him split kindling for a fire.

“In case the electricity goes out, which is likely, we’ll have a heat source,” he explained.

When he finished chopping wood, we carried in large bundles of it and put it all by the fireplace. When we were done with that, I told him that I was going upstairs to finish unpacking and that I’d be back down when I was done.

I had pretty much finished everything. I had one last box to open and I knew what was inside already. It was all of my CD’s and DVD’s, so I took them out and started to organize them. When I got to the bottom of the box I found my pouch, which was where I kept the CD’s I listened to the most for easy access. I unzipped it and flipped through the various CD’s I had in their, trying to decide if I was in the mood to listen to something soft or something depressing.

I might have missed it if I hadn’t noticed the bulge. It was tucked neatly behind my Jimmy Eat World CD, and when I unfolded it, I had no doubt who it was from. Just the sight of my mother’s handwriting made my eyes moisten and a lump grow in my throat. I tried to swallow it away, but it was fruitless, especially when I realized that there was a hint of her perfume on the paper. I held it to my nose and blinked back the tears that were forming in my eyes so I could read her letter.

Dear Josh,

There will never be a way for me to express the sorrow in my heart as I write this letter. You’re my son, and nothing will ever change that. I know how I’ve made you feel, and all I can do is apologize to you, son. Words can’t change what happened between us, but perhaps with an apology and truthfulness, we can start again.

Josh, I know I let you down. I’ve tried to be there for you in so many ways, but the one way I haven’t been there for you was the one way that you’ve needed me the most. I won’t make excuses for myself. I was being selfish and cold, and now I’m reaping what I’ve sown. If there was a way for me to turn the clock back and take away the hurt I’ve inflicted on my baby boy I would, but I know better. There’s no way for that to happen, Josh.

My reality is crashing down on me, Josh. You’re my whole world but I’ve been mistreating you. I rejected you when I should have showered you with love. I can’t get those days back, Josh. I know that. I squandered the love you gave me and now you’re leaving for a better life.

Now that I’m desperate to hold onto my son, I feel like you’re unapproachable. I wouldn’t even know how to initiate a conversation with you, Josh, because it’s been too long. I’m so sorry.

Whatever happens from here, please know that I love you more than my own life. If somehow by the grace of God I get another chance, I won’t throw it away. I’ll shower you with the love and the affection you deserve. It seems like my chance passed me by, though, and I’ll always regret that.

Your father is a wonderful man, Josh. He loves you for who you are, not for what you are. He’ll be good to you. I have no doubt about that, son. I understand that you’re doing what you have to do, Josh, but just know one thing: You still have a room here, and you always will. This is still your home, and if you ever want to come home, I’ll be more than blessed to have you back.

In the meanwhile, there is one thing I have to ask of you. I know it’s selfish, Josh, but I need you to forgive me. I need you to forgive me because I can’t forgive myself. I know I don’t deserve it, but if you can find it in your heart, I promise to start from here and make it worth your while. No matter what you decide, though, just know that I love you for who you are and I’m sorry that it took me this long to realize where I had gone wrong.

Love,

Mom

The croak that emanated from deep down in my throat was loud. I know it was loud because my dad heard it from the living room, where he was reading a book. I practically fell to my knees and sobbed uncontrollably for a few moments by myself, then with my father’s arms around me. He helped me up and walked me to my bed, where we sat side by side and I handed him the letter my mom had written for me. While he read the letter I tried to compose myself, but the smell of her perfume was catching my nose and making me pine even harder for my mother.

“Son, this is a really thoughtful letter, don’t you think?” he said when he finished reading it. I nodded tearfully, wishing I had found it before I had moved in with him. “Do you think you’d like to call her?”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “Is it okay?”

“Of course it’s okay, Josh,” he said compassionately. “Why don’t you call her now before the phone lines go dead?”

With that, he gave my shoulders a small squeeze and stood up, handing me the letter back neatly folded up the way it had been when I found it. When he walked out of my room, I thought about the call I was preparing myself for. I didn’t know what to say or how to start the conversation, but I knew there was nothing in the world, short of a blizzard knocking out the phone lines, that could stop me from what I was about to do.

I slowly cracked my knuckles, took a deep breath and stood up just in time to meet my dad, who had returned with the phone on his hand. He handed it to me with a small nod and a warm smile, then he walked out, closing the door behind him in order to give me the privacy I needed to try to make things right with my mom.

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