![]() ![]() Fifteen minutes later, she was out the door with a suitcase and I was left sitting alone in the room with my new gay dad. Probably some genetic connectivity thing. Short and quick and violent, the conversation in the living room ended with my mom slapping his face so hard I felt it. When my mom and I first found out, my parents didn’t “separate” or any of those nice things that fifty percent of America’s children get to go through. I hated it, him, Edward (his boyfriend), my mother for walking out, and the world in general. And believe me, having a gay dad doesn’t really register in a kid’s mind until you see him locking lips with another dude. A past that included things I’d never thought would come into my skinny little punk-skater life. I’m not into keeping track of misery, so don’t mark my words on that. The mother of all blindsides was my dad coming home one day and telling my mom and me that he was gay. Rough Butte, Montana, was a big change, but I’d been blindsided before. I got out of the minivan and a charcoal-gray cat wound its way between my calves, slinking and purring in the late-afternoon sun of Eastern Montana. Life wasn’t set up that way and we don’t like it, so we spend most of our time running around like a bunch of dimwits. At the ripe old age of seventeen, I’d at least figured out that no matter how hard you try to guess what happens next, you can’t. ![]() The decoder card to the universe wasn’t included in the box of cereal God gave humanity. ![]()
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