Page 2 of Sorry, We're Closed

I didn't know what to expect, but I don’t expect what happens next. My parents had never expressed their feelings towards queer people in any way, shape or form. I always believed that they were the perfect pairing, and all they ever wanted for me was to be happy.

As my school years continued, I found something that made me happy. Boys. Not only did I find boys, but boys who can like other boys, boys who can kiss other boys, boys who watch other boys playing sports while reading in the library, and this made my stomach flutter more than the thought of any girl ever did. If they only ever wanted me to be happy, then this should be something that we celebrate together, as a family.

Yet every part of my father detached himself from me in that moment. His face, his body, the air surrounding us, everything went still. I had never felt such a disconnect from my own father in that minute of silence before something moved the stagnant air surrounding us. He rose to his feet, his hands clenching and unclenching, wiping the peppered stubble he had over and over, exhaling with such force through his nose.

His eyes never looked at me as he spoke, “Sawyer, men, real men, don’t like other men, it’s not right.”

His words are pointed, sharp. Each one piercing, ripping through the tapestry of our picturesque family, slowly revealing a reality behind the yarn that would eventually come to light. As my words catch in my throat about how these boys made me happy, he jabs at me one last time.

“We won't talk about this again.”

I had never seen my father’s demeanour vanish in an instant. He turns his back to me, it seems emotionally as well as physically, and with that, he powers his way out of the front door, leaving it swinging with the morning breeze.

I feel numb. I never expected to be shut out just for being who I want to be. I feel cooling rivers cascade down my cheeks as I peer down at my shoes, the one my father had done so beautifully next the one he never finished.

Trying to control my sobbing, my fingers tangle themselves around the laces, I create knots that aren’t meant to be there, I just can't do it like he does. More and more, I see how distant my father and I have been and will always be it seems. I am not the man he wants me to be in this family.

I tuck the laces into my shoes, feeling the ropes under my foot and making it uncomfortable to walk before stumbling out of the front door. My suit sleeve wasn't a very good way of hiding the tears.

I had never stayed up this late before. I wasn’t sure of the exact time, but the black curtain over the sky told me it was the early hours of the morning. Still in my suit, my back pressed to my bedroom door while my knees were hugged tightly to my chest.

Ever since I got in that car, the family had been silent. I don't know what he must have told Mother when he got to the car before me, but he refused to look at me. Mother's ocean eyes had glanced at me only a few times throughout the day, with a half-hearted smile which read “I tried to talk to him, I really did”.

The entire service was filled with love and a community who all cherished each other, except within our family. We were divided because of me. If I had kept quiet, then my father would've tied my laces on both of my shoes, and we would've trotted to the car teasing each other, and we would've walked into the service as we always do, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut.I couldn't keep my damn mouth shut.

My stomach burned since the Sunday dinner was abandoned. I didn't help Mother to fill our table, but instead I hid away and allowed my mother to take the brunt of my actions. For hours, I listened to them argue. They argued over me. Words were spat, hissed and thrown out and around our family home about me and about how I cannot be accepted. I was hearing a side of my father that had never been brought to light, hearing him bellow.

“I will not have a faggot in my house. Sombres and Bosers don't raise gayboys like him.”

Mother tried to protect me, she tried to defend me, she pleaded, “Frankie please, it's probably just a phase, he'll grow—”

He continuously interrupted her. “Tracey! Those goddamn words have left his mouth. It doesn't matter if you want to call it a phase, he has thought it. He has thought those fucking thoughts about men, about boys, and I will never accept him, ever!”

There were periods of silence, which felt even worse than the screaming ringing through these once shining walls. That silence never felt like the end of this night, the night that I caused. We could've been stuffing our faces, laughing, being filled with joy solely from being around each other, but I caused this instead.

“Frankie darling, please. Let's go to bed, it's late. We can come back to this tomorrow with Sawyer, we can talk about this like a family. He is your son, he's my son, he'sourson.”

Mother's words rattle as they leave her lips, the words spilling out at a rapid rate until my entire body jolts forward. I had never seen any glimpse of this in my father before, but the sound of his hand striking her ricochets against the walls.

Her begging and pleading turns into sobbing and wailing, but her noise was left to drown out as he spat the words, “That boy is no son of mine. You are no wife of mine. This family is not mine. I cannot be associated with some cock sucking faggot and his mother, who cannot put a firm foot down to this disgusting behaviour. Bosers raise men, not whatever Sawyer says he is.”

“Frank! He is thirteen! Frankie!”

The intrusive volume of mother’s wailing combats the blood rushing through my ears. The wailing grows closer and closer, my eyes begin to sting as I tried to stop the tears from cascading down my cheeks. I hear his suitcase being dragged out from the top of their wardrobe and drawers, doors, cupboards were slammed into their frames.

She begs, I had never heard my mother submit like this before, but he had nothing to say to her anymore. He had shut her off, shut me off, and we were nothing to him anymore. How can someone's entire persona shift solely because of what I have thought about?Why, all because I have thought about a life with another boy, must you change?

This entire night feels like a lifetime, but the front door slamming shut quakes the house. This was the first time my legs move all night, and they couldn't have moved faster. I run, stumbling over the pins and needles spreading through my legs, to my bedroom window when the suitcase wheels rumble against the cobbled path. Father's hand locks around the suitcase handle, and I wonder if anyone would have the sheer strength to rip his grip free.

The car puts a spotlight on the house as the engine purrs. I hope and pray that seeing the house so bright and so clear, that maybe he would regret what he said because he would see what he’s leaving behind.

This was the last time I locked eyes with my father, his entire image blurred as my eyes fill with tears once more. I can't forget his face; I can't forget him. I rip my suit sleeve up to my face to wipe the tears, still not a good way to hide my tears, panic flooding over my body because I won’t accept this being the last time. My vision completely clears, but that one ray of light that was left of my father begins to dim as he leaves us behind.

Once again, my legs process everything going on so much faster than my head or heart as I find myself practically tearing my bedroom door from its hinges and throwing myself down the stairs, kidding myself into thinking that if I chase down the car which is already long gone down the town road, that maybe I can convince my father to stay and that I was only joking.

My identity can forever be a joke within our family if it means I actually have a family. My legs refuse to stop, even when I make it to the front door. Finding myself thrown into the wood panel, I fumble over myself, my hands clamming up and refusing to just grab the silver door handle.

“Sawyer, don't bother.” A tone I didn't recognise, but I knew full well who it came from, croaks from the living room.

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