I can only imagine coming out to my family. I imagine my father’s mother having another heart attack, I imagine my great uncles laughing (especially the one who’s been accused of raping one of my male cousins), and that one aunt with the hole in her neck firmly pressing the trigger on her tracheostomy tube to ask, “How do you even know?” And even though I remember exactly how I knew, I would spare them the story of nine year old me and the enlightening game of House.

A boyish looking little girl, it was inevitable that I had no chance of ever playing mommy in any childhood roleplaying game. For years I was condemned to play husband, father, brother, and any other male variant needing represented. So when my friend called asking to come over, I knew my pre-determined position. I waited for her to trek the length of the neighborhood to arrive at my doorstep and the moment she step foot inside, all of her bouncy curls following her, the game began.

“You be the boy, I’ll be the girl, okay?” she asked. I nodded robotically. “Well, you have to take me on a date, that’s what grown ups do, we can’t get married if you don’t.”

“Okay,” I began, the first of many times I would ask a girl out, “do you want to go to Applebee’s or something?” Upon her nod, we made our way to the expanse of my breakfast nook, got two paper plates and pretended to eat. It was nothing like a date, our pseudo-Applebee’s excursion definitely wouldn’t cut it today.

“Well,” she said expectantly, “aren’t you going to propose to me? You have to ask the girl to marry you at a nice dinner, that’s just how it works.” So I got down on my knee, just like in the movies, and uttered the question. The sunlight coming through the sliding glass door bounced off of her caramel curls and cast a halo of light around her, her face gleamed like an angel’s. I was glad she was going to be my wife, I was lucky she was going to be my childhood wife. I think that this was the first time I fell in love.