I think I’m supposed to feel badly that my grandmother doesn’t always recognize me, but I don’t. That’s nothing new. I made her cry in the middle of Back to School Night my senior year of high school, when she said, “You aren’t gay, are you?”
Now, to protect myself from my mother, my grandparents don’t have my home address.
For the last sixteen years, the people who I have called family, who I have spent holidays with, those who I have considered my real family, are other queer people.
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