Page 69 of Every November

I linger for a second, but he doesn’t say anything else, so I head into the kitchen to see what Mom wants. She poured herself a glass of wine, which she always does in my presence. I wonder if she drinks as much when I’m not around.

“We’re going to the Christmas Eve service tonight. Did you bring a nice outfit with you?”

“I’ll stay here while you all go,” I say, even though I know it’ll be a fight.

She huffs, frustration blooming on her face. “Marcus.”

“Mom, I’m not doing the service. We go through this every year.”

“It’s one hour. One hour, and you can’t give us that?” She sets her spoon down against the edge of the pot to pick up her wine, and I can already tell this is going to be one of the longer versions of this conversation. “Do you have any idea how it looks? Lily and Sean sitting there with your father and me, and everyone at church asking where you are. Again. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Tell them whatever you want, Mom, I really don’t care what the Hendersons think.”

“I care.” Her voice sharpens. “This family has gone to that service every single Christmas Eve since before you were born. It’s not just about you, Marcus. It’s about all of us, showing up together. It reflects on this whole family when you’re not there, and you know that.”

“It’s not about reflecting badly on anyone. I just don’t believe in God. You know that.”

“That’s exactly what concerns me. You used to sing in the children’s choir and participate in the Nativity play.” She wipes her hands on her apron as she takes a deep breath, forgetting that I was a child and this is the environment that was shoved down my throat. I didn’t realize I had a choice or even know the world was more diverse until I got older. “I just think, if you gave it a chance again—really gave it a chance, prayed on some of what’s going on with you—I think you’d find your way back. Pastor Whitfield always says it’s never too late to come back to the Lord’s path.”

“What’s going on with me?” I repeat, flat, already knowing exactly where this is headed, and rage begins to bloom in me. I told Evan I didn’t want to keep accepting scraps from my family, and I meant it.

“You know what I mean.” She says it gently, like she’s being kind by not saying the actual words or disowning me. “This whole… this bisexual thing. I just think if you spent more time with God, if you let Him back into your life instead of shutting Him out the way you have, you might find some peace with all of it. Maybe even find your way to something more traditional. I just love you, and I worry.”

“You worry that I’m bi? Why does who I sleep with concern you, Mom?”

“Marcus! Don’t be so vile. I worry about your soul.”

I stand there for a second, feeling that old, familiar tightness climb up my throat, the one that’s been there since I was a teenager and said the word out loud to her and watched her face do exactly this. Fuck, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep putting myself through this torture year after year. I’m not going to “change” my sexuality, and they are never going to accept me for who I am.

All this family does is fuck with my head and make me feel like I’m not worthy of anything good. I’m twenty-five years old, and I still walk through that front door and immediately need to shrink myself.

I think… I think it’s time.

Because now I have Evan. I have my own apartment, my own job, my own life hours away that has nothing to do with them, and none of it matters the second I’m standing in their living room. When I come here, I’m still just the version of me they’ve decided I am—not good enough at this, too much of that, always somehow falling short of some person they wanted instead of the one they got. I’m running out of room to keep being disappointing to people who are supposed to love me no matter what.

“This isn’t a phase you can pray out of me. It’s who I am,” I say, eerily calm.

“I never said it was a phase.” But the way she looks away when she says it tells me that’s exactly what she still believes because she did say it all those years ago. “I just want what’s best for you.”

“And what’s best for me? Dating a woman?”

“Yes.”

“For who?”

Her face morphs into surprise like she didn’t expect me to call her out because we both know the only person it’d be easier for is her.

“That’s what I thought. I’m not doing the service,” I reiterate. “I’m not sitting in a pew so you can feel better about how it looks to the judgy assholes you surround yourself with.”

“Marcus. It would mean a lot to your father and me.” I glance toward the living room, where my dad hasn’t moved, hasn’t looked over, hasn’t given any indication he’s aware this conversation is happening ten feet away. I doubt it would mean anything to him at all. “We should’ve never let you go to a liberal arts college. You’ve lost yourself.”

My blood boils. “I didn’t ‘lose myself,’ I’m just not living in the box you want me to be trapped in. I’ll never be a perfect, straight, Christian man. It’s not who I am. It’s never who I’ve been, so let’s stop pretending I’ll ever be good enough for you. I’m done trying.”

“Marcus, I⁠—”

“No. I don’t think I can be here this year. I’m done. Until you can love me and accept me for who I am, I don’t think there’s anything here for me anymore.” Instead of waiting for her to respond, I head up the stairs to grab my bag.

On the way back down, I hesitate for a moment, waiting for her to tell me not to leave. To ask me to stay. To fight for me even a little bit, but she doesn’t. I walk past her and my dad, who still hasn’t looked up, and out the front door. Neither one of them says a word.