When Bernard came out to his parents, some things were said. Some things were thrown. It was a bit of a hot mess that he doesn’t like to think about. While his father had been angry beyond words, his mother kept spewing some bullshit about how no one is really gay, Bernie, they just think they are. Maybe he should be more grateful for that, though. It was probably only her weird logic that let Bernard continue to sleep in his parents house that night— before he packed his shit up and left in the early hours of the morning.
But before he left, before he slept in his bedroom for the last time, his mother came into the room. She sat on his bed beside him, the way she always did when she had something to say. “Bernie,” she said, meekly, as if she had used her wonderful logic to deduce that what she said would make no difference. “I know we’ve had a conversation like this before. Well, not like this. I mean, you’ve never… Your father said some things tonight.
“Things that might seem mean. They might have hurt you. I know it must be hard for you to understand, it always has been, but please try, sweetheart. He hurts you because he loves you. Because he wants to correct you before you make bad choices. He— we love you, Bernie. God loves you. God has a plan for you. But this… this isn’t what He wants.”
His parents hurt him because they loved him.
It really should have been to the surprise of no one that he traded one god for another, and the crack of a whip sounded like sweet penance acceptance.
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