Mothers know. It’s frustrating—eerie, even—how easily my mother can sense that a storm is brewing inside of me. Sometimes she even sees it before I do. It’s like having a psychological intruder. For weeks after I came out in a very public way—by writing about being queer in a piece for The Guardian—I kept checking my phone, expecting a call from my parents any minute. Every buzz and beep set me on edge. Although my siblings had known for years, my parents still had no idea that I was queer. I wondered if a relative would send them a link to the piece, sparking a confrontation. The phone call
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