I am the last in my line.

When I was eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, I would lay in bed and want to weep because of the guilt. I felt guilty for who I was, for who I wanted to love; that I could not bring children into the world and give them my name and raise them and love them without harsh looks of judgement or hate or scorn. I felt ill knowing that one day, my lie would need to end. I would need to tell my family why there would be no child. I braced myself for a life without love or family or acceptance.

I’m remembering this because I thought today how nice it is not to feel this way anymore. How nice it is to look and speak to someone and feel that I care about him. I think about being with him, in his arms, in his sweater, in his hands.

I think that one day I may give my name to a child and try to show them how best to use it.