Sometimes I don't love you.

Sometimes it’s hard to admit I don’t love you all the way.

I do miss the old version of you. When you would encourage me to do my best, create hell, and smile. As a child, I was very insecure and needed words of affirmation. You were the greatest part of my existence, and I cherish you immensely. I cherish the conversations during dinner, being your dance partner in the kitchen as you made tortillas, and sharing an apple; that person I miss, and I loved her more.

But she quickly evaporated. Your kinder self melted away like butter on a hot skillet. Why did you express anger and hatred when I told you I am gay? You iterated religiously to trust you, but you became deceiving. Internally, fear ignited and made me believe I am monstrous. I could no longer entrust in you. I was someone who was destroying "your family".

Where was the mother you introduced me to as a child, was she real? Does she fully exist or a complete act? Because the audience is not applauding. That person you showed me throughout my life who was she, where did she go?

Mom, you are selfless, caring, and gentle, offering love to everyone; I love it. When you first entered motherhood did you have visions of your children? Did you think you would stop providing emotional support to your children? I needed you, especially navigating my self-discovery as a queer person. Mom, you did not fail as a parent, but you failed to remain a compassionate person. You skipped that part of being human to another human.

Instead, we experience silent car rides. Minimal chatter and the music only noise in the background, while you make tortillas. Why did you stop inviting me to dance? Why do you not keep the conversation going? We have a disconnect. Sometimes you make me feel I am the problem, but you became the problem.

Remember when I was in college, and I would bring that boy to the house? Well, he was my boyfriend, a character similar to myself. Someone you would have loved if you allowed yourself to. We dated for three years, and I wanted to introduce him as my boyfriend. Have lunch and do weird stuff hetero couples do with their significant others and family. Take family trips to Disneyland and wear queer attire. I wanted pictures on the family wall of me wearing Goofy ears and him kissing me on my cheek. It should not matter who I choose to love, but happy with who I love.

Of course, that was only a fantasy. A vision you drew for me if I were straight. But eventually, you knew of my ex-boyfriend, and you were more accepting than I imagined. The way you would joke and laugh with him. I wish you did vocalize your support directly after I came out. I would have felt accepted. I would have felt loved by you.

Although finding familiarity was rough, I can say a moment I loved was the pandemic. We literally bonded. We would sit outside and watch the hummingbird fly around the olive tree. Witnessing how excited you became was so cute. We watched movies, Netflix series, and Rupauls drag race. We had conversations about marriage with my potential partner.

That experience was new for you and me. It seemed as if you overcame homophobia because people like me aren't bad. We are not monsters.

I wish you accepted me instead of rejecting me, but we are slowly reaching familiarity. Sometimes I am happy we talk and laugh, other times I get sad because of how you’ve treated me over the years. But, I can't hold it to heart.

I do miss dancing with you while making tortillas. I'm glad you ask the grandkids now. But sometimes I wish you would ask me to dance again.

Mom, I could not hate you, nor do I want to, but sometimes I do not love you.