I never bothered to have a this is a Very Special Episode of Your Life-type sit-down with my dad when I came out, to teach him to be a more accepting person. My mom kicked him out when I was eight and my memories of him involved his pickling himself on the couch after he lost his job at the water desalination plant when the whole operation turned to synth workers. He called me on my thirteenth birthday and I worked up the courage to ask him why he never bothered to help me and my mom out. She’d made games, when I was younger, about digging through the couch cushions and treasure-hunting on the sidewalk for change to buy a gallon of milk. I’d laughed over the sidewalks, snatching coins and stashing smooth pieces of glass and cool rocks in a shoe-box treasure chest in my room. Having no idea then how hard-off we were—how much she probably stayed awake at night—and thinking it was only a game.

My dad waited a long time before answering, “Because I hate her more than I love you.”

I didn’t let him rent a ton of space in my brain after that.