“He said: “You are my son.” And I began to sob. Perhaps this is the worst any closet does to us – it prevents us from hearing the words “I love you.” These were words my parents said to me, and I trusted the love, but not the “you.” The real me was hidden, so the “you” they loved was some other, better son. But when my father claimed me – This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine – I began to suspect that no matter what I was, he would be next to me, the silent economist stroking my hair.”
