She started it, below the pillows of Grandad's room. Then, it became some sort of a regular thing for the two of us – every time you went out with dad and left us alone, I basically experimented and frolicked around with her.
Although nothing serious actually ever happened – just kissing, I forgot, it's been almost 13 years after that incident – we finally figured out that it's several shades of wrong somewhere along the way, so we stopped.
We never talk about that anymore. We don't want to. She has a boyfriend now, and they're happy together. It is kind of strange, now that I look at it. How could you not know, though? Because you only see what you want to see, probably.
When I was a little older, I played The Sims, and the majority of my characters were female (they're prettier). They had affairs with numerous people – other girls, mostly. But you don't know this, of course you don't. Nowadays, when you tap around with your smartphone and ask me to teach you how in the name of hell do you save this group picture into your gallery, I groan and tell you to go Google it off while exchanging exasperated glances with my sister about how technologically-behind you are. But when I think about it, I'm glad that you're not so adept at these things. Things would be different if you were.
Mom, I'm in a relationship with a girl. We've been going out for a year – isn't it exciting? Our anniversary is coming soon and I'm jittery. She's the most fascinating person I've ever had the honor to know. When I'm with her, everything just falls into place. Everything feels right and beautiful, and life has hope of actually giving a meaning.
I'm sorry, mom, it's not like you and the folks never meant anything to me, but as unromantic as I am, it's always a good feeling to know that you wholly belong somewhere. That there's someone who accepts you for what you really are, for what you like and what you hate. It's not a phase. It's just – simply complicated as it is – love.
I hide nothing from my girlfriend. Nothing at all. She knows about my past. I tell her my dreams and my fears, and she shares hers. It's honest and pure, and it's love. She understands me, and I understand her. I feel safe and comfortable – no more of that impression management shit where I have to hide stuff from you, lie over and over again….
This, for me, is something I think we won't achieve unless you're ready to accept me for what I am: that I'm not straight, and I've always been not straight since I was learning multiplication tables. I hope I could come off as not too-selfish, but I think what we yearn for the most in life is acceptance, and she gives that, and many more, to me so I will stay with her for as long as I could. It's my right to pursue my happiness, isn't it?
I wish I could tell you this... story of mine directly to you, but I know it's not likely – at least not yet, I hope. Because you would most probably kick me out of the house. Or you'll be ashamed. Or you'll go and try to 'cure' me. Or blame my friends – or, worse, yourself.
It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault. Not my friends and their different preferences (yes, not everybody's straight, mom, not even my best friend). It's not even Dad's various escapades with a handful of other women that obliterated my respect, trust and feeling of safety around men.
It's not the fact that he married another woman and had a secret child that almost ruined our family. It's not our strange extended family and all of its somewhat useless, unsuccessful men. It's not the TV series I watch and the handful of subtexts.
It's just me. And don't you dare blame my sister for this because look at her, she's as straight as a ruler and here's me, bendy. It's nobody's fault, mom, really. I was just – as cliché as it sounds – born this way.
I wish I would have the guts to say that to you, someday. And hopefully, when I do, you won't blame anyone because of that, because, really, you're a good mother. You're fun and laid-back, although you can be quite annoying and naggy sometimes but hey, every mom is naggy in a way.
Ask my friends. They all love you and I love you more than them because you've raised me since I was a wee baby girl scooting everywhere in my overalls, and, basically, nothing much would change. I'm still your daughter. I'll still ace my tests like I do now. Be your good girl.
I will still make you and dad proud – like I do now. I can still get a nice job and a beautiful apartment in the city. I know I can do that, and I think you know it, too. You'll just have to try to look at me through the judgments and other negative things I know you'd bestow upon me, my sexuality and my girlfriend.
And I promise, you'd see that I'm still the same person. I'm still that cheeky girl who's always up for a discussion (you call it arguing, though. Same difference.) about anything anytime. I will still be your daughter, ready to take on the world with everything I have.
I'll still love you and dad. I'll save my salary and send you to Mecca. Give you the bag you've always wanted, or the car we've been needing for centuries.
But yeah. Not now. Later, when we're both ready. Whenever that is.
A delicious fur ball of bitter contradictions.