Church on Saturday

I had a friend in college who said he was never going to have children. At the time I thought he didn’t want the responsibility. Looking back now, I wonder if he was actually hoping to avoid the heartbreak.

I can’t speak for all fathers, but the day my son was born, I saw his life flash before my eyes. He was going to dominate the other infants in the nursery, be valedictorian of his preschool, hit puberty at nine, and start at quarterback on the varsity football team his freshman year. 

After that, the visions became more serious and less scripted. My son was going to be his own man. He would choose his profession and his wife. Then, when the time was right, he would present me with my first grandson. It didn’t seem too much to ask. I just wanted him to be a good boy who would become a good man. I saw it all so clearly, but as they say, “The best laid plans…”

When did I first know? I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can count. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment—it’s actually more of a process than an event, but I would say it’s similar to trying to remember when you stop believing in Santa Claus. In the beginning, you don’t know the truth and it’s wonderful. Then certainty gives way to doubts, ones you dare not verbalize or share. Next comes the internal realization, but you still find a way to pretend because the alternative is unthinkable. Last comes the inescapability of the obvious, the moment all reasonable—and unreasonable—doubt is removed. At this point your world becomes forever less good.

I was blissfully unaware when my son was young. Looking back, there were signs, although I didn’t see them. I tried to connect with him the same way my father had with me—through sports. I was obviously disappointed when he resisted playing Little League. But with a few words of encouragement, he gave baseball a try and seemed to get better from week to week. At least, that’s what I told myself. 

On Sundays, when I parked myself in front of the living room TV to watch football, he would give me a hug and head to the bedroom to watch romcoms with my wife. I never said it out loud, but it broke my heart each time he walked away. I remember praying on more than one occasion that he would gain an interest in my favorite game and decide he wanted to spend Sunday afternoons with me.

My son also wore his emotions on his sleeve. When we would watch sad movies, I did everything I could to choke back the tears welling up in my eyes. Not him though—he cried unashamedly. Then he'd come hug me because he could sense I was sad as well.

It was during his high school years that I started to suspect. I was proud of him, to be sure. He was so smart, much smarter than I, but he was also sensitive and gentle. He was popular, especially with the girls, but he never asked any of them out. For the homecoming dance, he dressed up in a three-piece with a tie. He looked so damn good in that suit, but he didn’t go with a girl. He just went with a group of friends. It was then that I knew something was off.

What happened next confirmed my unspoken fears.

I was still up when he came home after the dance. It was pitch black outside, but the dome light in the car worked perfectly well. I wasn’t completely sure, but it looked to me as if he leaned over and kissed the boy who dropped him off. I can’t say for certain how long I sat by myself, in silence, in the dark before I went to bed. I only know it was precisely long enough to convince myself I hadn’t seen what I knew I had.

Denial is a powerful tool, and I wielded it often. I was intentionally blind to the obvious until one day I came home early from work. When I walked in the door, I saw him standing there, right in the middle of the living room. He had on lipstick and eyeshadow and some sort of foundation all over his cheeks. It’s the only time in his life that I hit my son. I slapped him so hard that my hand stung, so hard I left the outline of my palm on his face. In a moment of rage, I had lost all control. When I saw the makeup smudged on my hand, I ran, like Lady Macbeth, to the kitchen. I had to wash off our shame. I insisted he never tell anyone what he had done and hoped he'd never tell anyone what I had done. Ironically, he didn’t cry, not a single tear. In his life I was never more proud of him. To this day I still don’t completely understand the dichotomy. 

The day he actually came out was equal parts expected, dreaded, and heartbreaking. My wife asked all sorts of questions. Was he bi? Was he trans? Was he sure? I just sat stoically and listened. I loved my son, but on that day, I didn’t like him—not at all—and I told him as clearly as I could with my silence.

It has been said that time heals all wounds, and that is true, even the self-inflicted ones. By the time he left for college, we had entered into a détente. I loved my son and, for reasons known only to him, he loved me, too. I know he discussed deeper subjects with his mom, but we had an unspoken agreement. We stuck to safe conversations: my job, his schoolwork, his mother, finances. He even started to watch football. More than anything, I started to dream again. The dreams were different, but they were no less sincere. I wanted my son to find success and happiness.

After college, he settled into his own life—further from home than either my wife or I preferred, but close enough to visit regularly. He had become his own man, just as I hoped. Whenever the chance presented itself, and I made sure it did, I would brag about my son who worked for NASA. I was the only one in our golfing foursome who had an actual rocket scientist in the family.

As always, his mother was the one who would talk with him about his personal life. We observed the old military policy—don’t ask, don’t tell. I would quiz him about his job and bore him with stories about the neighborhood, and we found commonality with football. He had actually grown to love the game and my New York Giants. That was an answered prayer.

His last visit seemed like all the rest until the final night. I had retired to the den to enjoy a cigar. Neither he nor my wife liked the smell of smoke, so I was caught off guard when my son walked in, sat in the chair next to me, and told me he had a question.

Nothing can really prepare you for the joy you feel when your son chooses you to be the best man at his wedding. The moment it happened, I unexpectedly teared up. I remembered all the hopes and dreams I had for him on the day he was born. Then, in an instant, reality crashed over me like a tidal wave. If I answered yes, I would have to stand up next to him while he pledged his life to another man. I would need to remain silent when the pastor said: “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” I would be forced to watch as he kissed his husband in front of our family and friends.

I’m not sure who was more surprised by my answer, him or me.

Planning an event on short notice can be unimaginably stressful, but it can also serve as a necessary distraction. We had to find a pastor, invite all our family and friends, and make sure there were plenty of flowers. I purposely kept myself so busy that I never allowed any time to consider what was happening. Even the night before the event seemed surreal. There were people in attendance with whom, given the chance, we could spend hours talking, and yet we only had enough time to carry on short conversations and share hugs. 

My wife and I were the last ones to leave. 

Unlike most Friday nights, everyone wanted to get home and get a good night's sleep. The next day we would celebrate my son. Every conversation that night had obviously been about him. Everyone marveled at how great he looked. I, on the other hand, wasn’t the least bit surprised. Say what you will about my son, he might never have learned to throw a football, but that boy could sure wear a suit.

When everyone had gone and without having to ask, my wife left me alone with him. She instinctively knew there were things I needed to say. 

He thought I didn’t love him—I had to tell him I did. 

He thought I wasn't proud of him—I had to tell him I was. 

He never heard me say I’m sorry. This was my greatest regret. I was so very sorry—more than he would ever know. I hoped—somehow, someway—he would still hear me and forgive.

My son had asked me if I would be his best man, and I said, “No.” At least that's what I wanted to say. What I actually said was, “Hell fucking no, and I won’t be at your goddammed wedding either.” 

Just as I had years earlier, I allowed rage to overcome common sense. The look on his face spoke volumes, as did his silence. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me, but he didn’t cry. I had verbally stabbed him in the heart, but just like when I slapped his face, he remained stoic. That boy was one tough son-of-a-bitch.

I think my answer is why he killed himself. I’ll never know for sure though. He didn’t leave a note.

I answered his question with a definitive no, but even if I had said yes, I'd have been in the exact same place. Because there are only two reasons to be in church on Saturday: weddings and funerals.

I guess the real question is, if I had it to do all over again, knowing what I know now, would I have changed my answer? Would I have said yes?

I'm ashamed to say, I honestly don't know.