She was conflicted, but she was not the kind of person to deflect her moral conflict via hostility toward me or her son. Over the next few years, I would discover that meanness was not in her character. She was aloof, yet not rejecting or mean.
She was accepting but drew the line at “never wanting to meet a man Al was with.” A daughter of Irish-Catholic immigrant parents, she found it too much in the mid-’80s to convey approval by welcoming someone like me into her home.Īnd yet, six months after Al and I met that summer in San Diego, here I was at her Wallingford kitchen table, sharing a meal of Al’s favorite scallops. This was a few years after her son Al, my partner (now husband) of 36 years, first disclosed to her that she had a gay son. We first met in her Wallingford, Conn., kitchen the day after Christmas in 1987.
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