The day was here when we said, “The day is finally here”.

I was in bed with the light on. It was around 7pm. I wasn’t going to sleep, but resting in my room in the only place my body fits right now; otherwise the floor is packed with suitcases and bags of serving and baking dishes from last week’s baby shower.

I was on the phone and fumes were being gassed in my breath. The post office had repackaged a box I’d filled to the brim with books and papers, and what arrived was about half what I’d lovingly packed. And then Dad called, so I let P go from our conversation about my things and the tedium of insurance claims and I said I’d see him in an hour or at 8:30, whichever came first.

It was like this. No hello, just me in a quick what’s up? I was impatient and annoyed. Not at him, but he doesn’t know that. 
Dad was using his dark voice. The deep of the deep. He said hello to me and didn’t ask what was wrong, instead I demanded it. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Having known him for years, ready for his pitiful theatrics where everything is about him and his life and his feelings. And today I cared about those things.

You know how I feel about homo-SEX-uals? He wanted to know.
Yeah. Yep. I knew already. I’m sure my chest deflated as my heart recoiled, prepared for what was coming next.
Your brother just told me he’s gay. 
Oh. Really? Oh—
Did you know?
I suspected.
Did you know?
Yes. Yep.
How long?
I’m not really sure.
Do you have anything you want to tell me? Are you sure?
I paused for a few moments to consider if my uterus was vacant or if I was suddenly donning a wedding ring. I have none of those things, and I just started a new job this week. I felt like I was okay. I just told him no. And today I am wondering if I should have uttered a parental kind of I love you. Or if I should have thanked him with profusion for everything he’s ever done for me.
Goodbye, Brenna. Have a nice [audio muffled] life? Night?
—and he hangs up.
Like he’s been doing my entire life. 

I took 10 deep breaths. I called my older sister and she knows now, too. There are no more secrets; none that my mom keeps for my brother and none that my brother has to keep from our dentist. None the defies her marriage or complicates dinner conversation. My older sister told me that she doesn’t want our 20-year-old brother around her children; who he’s been babysitting for almost 10 years. She doesn’t need to talk to him. She is like our dad, she said. She is scared and hopes it’s a phase and she doesn’t have to agree with him. To her he is a sex offender and he is choosing to do this.

None of my anecdotes worked with her, and I marinated in our now quite obvious differences. We all know plenty of gay people!—Not her. And she doesn’t talk to the ones she does know.

My father cried to her. This is something that is happening to him. Why him? He must have thought a hundred times. No one is dead and we are all healthy. I asked my older sister to babysit him. To make sure he doesn’t commit to suicide (because he is a candidate and I said these things out loud with some kind of disbelief). I wanted to be home to protect my mom; who, before my brother sent an elusive text on National Coming Out Day, my father threatened to leave if he had a gay son.
I will leave my family. He claimed.

My little sister had all the same feelings as I did. She was bawling when I got to her, and I was familiar with the thoughts of her despair. Why did we squander our best family days? All the warmth of the lights and fireplace and crock-pot meals with flaked mashed potatoes and the television and our dad plopped on the couch and everyone in their rooms. This is, most certainly, a defining moment of a crack in our structure. My mother is finally clear of the feat of secretive oppression. The two of them, my mom and brother, are free. We are uncertain now if the echo of my father’s laughter will cry out as unalloyed in his own home; if he will be there at Christmas. Why does he work where he does, and is he happy there? And she and I love our brother. We love him. Why does our older sister need to treat him differently when his hair and skin and glasses are still the same, when his very DNA is closer to hers than anyone else’s? My Evann and I understand that this is a moment where we could all bond and love, and live out the rest of our days in a household with less bigotry, and perhaps later less racism. Our home could be just as warm, and we are in favor of it. We are all still here, and we could give like there’s no tomorrow.

And so far away, I am sad. I am confused. There is a void and loveless sleeps and this concept. Family. Family. Will he leave? Will I worry?

That was the day. It finally came. It is finally gone.