It had finally happened.

Your father had found your pride flag.

Now, he sat across from you at the kitchen table, his expression unreadable—except for the unmistakable shadow of disappointment in his eyes.

Your stomach twisted into knots as you straightened in your seat, trying to gauge his reaction.

You and your father had always been close. His boy. His pride and joy. He had taught you everything he knew, shaped you into the person you were today. But there was one part of you he never knew—one truth you had buried deep because you feared exactly this moment.

“I thought you were… straight.” His voice was quiet but heavy.

You exhaled slowly, meeting his gaze with as much steadiness as you could muster.

“I’m not,” you said firmly. “But that doesn’t change anything. I’m still me. Still your son. I just don’t have the same preferences as you.”

Silence.

Then—bang.

His palm slammed down on the table, the sudden force making you flinch.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, but before you could even react, you felt a warm, gentle hand settle against your back. Your mother.

You turned slightly, and there she was—her eyes soft, her expression unwaveringly proud. She had always been the more open one, always made it clear she would love you no matter what.

But your father? That was a different story.

His jaw tightened, hands clenched into fists as if he were struggling to contain the storm inside him. His nostrils flared, his face red with something you couldn’t tell was anger, hurt, or both.

“No.” His voice came low, trembling with something dangerous. “No, this changes everything. My son is… is… what the fuck even are you?”

And just like that, the last thread of hope inside you unraveled.