“This post is fictional.”
In my house, a cup of tea is always the answer, to whatever ails us. A bad breakup, some stuck-up cow at work, a cup of tea and a biscuit is always the key. Always.
There is no conversation that can’t be had over a cup of tea, or so I thought. I invited my mother round in a time of great need for me. I put the kettle on and made us both a cuppa. I sat down, nervous. This wasn’t going to be easy, I look at her, trying to make the words form on my tongue and move into the nethersphere.
“Yeah?” She replies with her mouth full of digestive.
“I don’t know how to say this but-”
“I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re gay,” She says, laughing into her mug
I just looked down at my tea, the bubbles still swirling in the mug. She looks at me in horror for just a moment and then gathers her things and leaves.
“I’ll talk to you when you have gotten through this phase,”
I just look at her, unable to respond. How can you possibly tell someone who was supposed to support you that this was who you are and it isn’t a phase?