I'm sitting there watching Lady Bird. It's the scene where Lady Bird finds the crumpled up letters her mom tried writing to her.
The last time my mom wrote a letter to me, it was on a yellow post-it and I had to use Google Translate to get what she was trying to say.
I didn't understand.
It's been nineteen months since I came out to my parents, since I left our home.
The last time I wrote a letter to my parents, my dad took a lighter to it, said "God can't accept that," and I realized I needed to start calling it "their home."
Eighteen months, and I'm still getting the hang of teaching pubescent, snot-nosed, giggly, self-involved kids. Then on the weekend I'm the snot-nosed, giggly, self-involved kid wondering what I'm supposed to do with my life.
Three and a half years now. I'm sitting in the living room with her: The one who dug me up, dusted me off, and let me become who I wanted to be.
I'm marrying her in 6 months, and this letter is for her:
I am small, but I want to give you the world.
Can I share my everything with your everything?