“Mama’s boy.” That was what my older brother called me. It was meant as an insult, a way to make me feel ashamed of my closeness with my mother. Instead, it became one of the truest descriptions of my life. Whether it was true or not, I believed I was my mother’s favorite child. Honestly, I don’t know if I was. Our mother had a way of making each of her children feel special.
At 16 years old, my mom met my dad, who was 18, on a blind date arranged by mutual friends. They dated for two years, and in 1955, they married right after her 18th birthday. Nine months later, my sister was born. Three years after that, my brother arrived. Seven years later in 1965, planned or not, I showed up. As my mom put it, “With God there are no accidents.” Which is another way of saying I was not planned.
Even though my sister was almost 10 years older, I felt closer to her than I did to my brother. She often treated me like her baby doll, and she protected me from my brother, who liked to pick on and torment me. Because he was no longer the “baby,” and didn’t like that I now got the attention that used to be his, I became his target. When things got too heated with him, I would run to my sister and stand behind her so she could intercept him and shield me.
When I was a toddler, my mom decided to go to college. She attended classes part-time while raising three children, often bringing me along when she couldn’t find a babysitter. Some of my earliest memories are of her registering in person for classes. I remember a photographer taking a photo of me at the registration table. The photo was later published in the school paper with the cheeky caption, “Students Are Getting Younger.” The associated article spoke to the challenges of childcare.
Nearly ten years later, after transferring from University of Texas Arlington to North Texas State University, she graduated with a degree in education. Watching her persistence taught me something about determination long before I understood it.
My affinity with my mom showed up in big and small ways. During summer breaks, she did her best to keep me entertained. I felt special. Not everyone got to see her fun and carefree side, so I treasured her playful side. I fondly remember us at Six Flags Over Texas, going to the Old West section, and dressing in full Western garb for a metal plate photo.
Another time, we went to Log Cabin Village in Fort Worth, a re-creation of early Texas settlement with a full immersion experience, including butter-churning demonstrations and settler toys. There, my mom bought me a wooden horse puzzle that I still have today. When I became a parent, I shared the puzzle with my son.
Mom’s playful side also came out on Halloween. For me, when I think of Halloween, I don’t remember trick or treating or getting candy. I remember my mom dressed as a clown just to be silly with me.
As a kid, I always found ways to earn money. I went around our neighborhood selling weekly newspapers and greeting cards. I held toy sales in the front yard to sell toys I had outgrown. I collected change left behind in payphones, especially when we stopped at gas stations. (I once found nearly one dollar in small change!) Each year, I would save my chore and hustle money for Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day so I could buy carnations for my mom.
In high school, I entered a drawing to win a small women’s diamond bracelet from the local jewelry store. Much to the chagrin of the women in town, I won. Everyone wanted to know what I was going to do with the bracelet. Without hesitation, and because I had no need for a women’s bracelet, I gave it to my mom.
“When the time comes and you have someone special,” she said, “I will give it back to you.” Mom still has it. Not because I don’t have someone special in my life, but because I don’t think it would fit my husband, Pete, nor would he want it.
As I grew older, our easy closeness became more complicated — due in part to the natural flow of aging, but also because of my inner shame and fear of her rejection. I knew I was gay, and my sexual orientation was in direct contradiction to my mom’s religious beliefs. And so, I worked hard to keep that part of myself separate, compartmentalized, and hidden from my mom and family. It took years for me to reconcile my religious upbringing and my identity as a gay man. But until my understanding shifted into full acceptance, I distanced myself from my mom, the person I had been closest to my entire life.
But despite keeping my distance, I still treasured our family trips. In 1987, we started taking an annual Christmas ski trip to different ski resorts in New Mexico and Colorado. (And even after I moved to New York City in 1994, I still loved being with my family on these trips.)
By the early 1990s, I had been in a few very short-term relationships and, in 1993, was in a relationship with my first long-term boyfriend. And I felt ready, or at least ready enough, to tell my mom. Uncertain about her reaction, I never doubted her love for me. Even though complete acceptance felt like too much to hope for. My desire to be open and honest outweighed my fear of rejection. So, I leaned on my love, and our years of being close, and told my mom I was gay.
“I have something to tell you that is hard for me to say,” I said. “I am not interested in or attracted to women.” After a pause, I added, “I have been seeing someone for a year.”
Then I cried. She hugged me and said she loved me. We didn’t talk long. But she had answered the question I had carried for years. Before theology, before disagreement, before everything else, she chose to hug me. In that moment, that was all that mattered.
Around a year later, I moved to New York City. Mom didn’t understand why I needed to move so far away. My absence seemed hard for her, and I think she held onto hopeful belief that I would eventually move back. For nearly 10 years, she asked whether I would ever come home. Eventually, she stopped asking. Instead, she turned wherever I lived into a reason to visit and make a trip or vacation out of it. In June 1994, my mom, sister, and niece visited me in New York. It was my first time playing tour guide, exploring Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.
I continued to play tour guide for my mom and dad whenever they came to visit. Each time I moved to a new apartment gave them a reason to come see my new place and me. Of course, my mother never stopped marveling at the small size of New York apartments.
In 2000, after I found a newborn baby, our relationship changed. When my boyfriend Pete and I eventually became the baby’s parents, I called my mom to share the news. She told me it was not a good idea — that a child needed a mother and a father. I disagreed. I told her a child needs parents who love and care for him. She dug in, repeating her belief. All I could do was repeat my belief that a child needs love, no matter who their parents are.
Our disagreements never got contentious. We just agreed to disagree. But I knew she was wrong. And almost 10 years later, she did, too, admitting that Pete and I were good parents and were doing a wonderful job raising our son Kevin. Hearing her express this was huge and shocking. Stunned, all I could manage to say was a simple “thank you.” But I felt validated and seen and honored because I knew the tremendous value she placed on being a parent. Mom even wished me a Happy Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, since, to her, I was fulfilling both roles.
Kevin enjoyed visiting his Texas grandparents, Nanny and Pawpaw. They lived in the country, far away from city life, and being there gave him a chance to be around my parents’ farm animals, especially all the cows, HotShot the donkey, and Major the horse. Once, Kevin rode around the yard on Major’s back with his Nanny by his side.
Parenthood allowed a new bond to form and grow with my mom. I often shared Kevin’s milestones, accomplishments, and all the ordinary experiences with her and my dad. But since mom filtered everything through the lens of scripture, she was always concerned about Kevin’s spiritual salvation. She consistently asked if I was reading the Bible to him and taking him to church so he would know Jesus. Over the years, she sent Kevin various religious books and videos, including a children’s Bible.
As a toddler, Kevin sometimes accompanied Pete’s parents to their Roman Catholic Church. It was there he first encountered religious imagery of Jesus on the cross. When my parents took Kevin to their Southern Baptist Church, and he recognized a depiction of Jesus, he pointed and blurted out, to my mom’s delight, “Jesus!”
While tensions around her religious beliefs and my being gay simmered under the surface, it never became something that interfered with our love for each other. But when New York legalized same-sex marriage in 2011, and Pete and I decided to marry, we wondered if we should invite my parents to the ceremony. I was hesitant and guarded, anticipating they would not come. Still, I called my mom to share the news and invite them. There was a long pause, and then she said, “Marriage is between a man and a woman. We will not come.” I had expected as much, but the disappoint still stung.
A few days later, I received a letter in which my mom explained herself. Using scripture to explain her beliefs, she explained that God considered the marriage of two men an abomination. I wrote back, using scripture and religious language to challenge her beliefs, explaining in detail why I disagreed with her scriptural interpretations to condemn homosexuality. I also shared my personal experience of growing up as a gay boy in rural Texas, including my internal struggles from boyhood through young adulthood. I expressed that during that time, I had also viewed myself as an abomination, and that I had prayed for God to change my sexual desires. I focused my life more on discipleship, in an attempt to become a stronger and more devout Christian who could resist same-sex attraction. I was convinced God would change me if I were just a better disciple. Ultimately, I told her that I had come to accept my sexuality as a gift, and that acceptance had made me a better and more empathetic person.
Our decades-long disagreements continued, but so did our engagement. I understood her beliefs because I had been raised with them, but I was deeply disappointed and sure that her, and those of the Southern Baptist Convention, were fundamentally wrong and damaging to the spirit and soul. And yet, through all our back-and-forth, we always ended our letters and phone calls with the same words: “I love you.” I have never doubted my mom’s love for me. Even when I felt misunderstood, I never felt unloved. And love is what matters most, even through disagreement.
Today, Mom considers Pete one of her sons, as she once introduced him over breadsticks and salad to an Olive Garden server.
In the last few years, time has sped up exponentially. My mom is now 89 and in the final stages of dementia, the culmination of several years of mini strokes that have taken a toll. I should have noticed the shift a couple of years before her diagnosis, when after more than 55 years the annual call and “Happy Birthday” serenade from my parents suddenly stopped. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Then I realized she had forgotten my birthday.
The official diagnosis came in 2024, and she has progressively declined physically and mentally over the last two years. She can no longer move without assistance. She struggles to speak, only saying a few words at a time. She naps most of the day. I know my time with her is winding down. I call and visit a lot more. I reminisce and look at old photos. I treasure our time together. Our silliness. Our bond. Our respect. And our love for each other.
Although mom now has a hard time finding words, in one recent conversation, she was able to find just enough to say, “I love you, and I always have.”
Those seven words reached across decades — from my childhood, to coming out, to our arguments, to my marriage, and to raising Kevin. Those seven words — I love you, and I always have — remind me that love has always been the truest thing between us.
I guess you could say, after all these years, I am still a mama’s boy.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Danny Stewart(Author)
