They Were Waiting for Me

I was a teenager
with a truth folded small in my chest,
sharp as a secret letter
I was afraid to open out loud.

I had seen what could happen.
A friend with a duffel bag and red eyes,
sleeping on borrowed couches,
love turned conditional overnight.
I learned fear early,
learned that honesty could cost you a home.

So when I sat at our kitchen table,
hands shaking against the wood,
I expected anger.
I expected slammed doors,
or worse—
that quiet disappointment that feels
like being erased while still standing there.

I told them anyway.
My voice broke on the word lesbian,
as if naming myself might make me disappear.

But they didn’t yell.
They didn’t flinch.
They smiled—softly, knowingly—
and said,
“We know.
We’ve known for a while.
We were just waiting for you.”

Waiting.
Not denying.
Not fixing.
Just leaving the door open
until I was ready to walk through it myself.

Then my mother asked, gently,
“If you’d like,
we have a friend who’s a lesbian.
Would you want to talk to her
if you ever have questions?”

Questions.
As if my future were allowed.
As if my life were something
to be lived fully,
not survived quietly.

I remember sitting there, stunned,
wondering how love could be this easy,
this generous,
this free of conditions.

Now, years later,
with the knowledge of what others endured—
the yelling, the prayers, the threats, the silence—
I look back and feel the weight of my luck.

Not everyone was held.
Not everyone was believed.
Not everyone was waited for.

And I carry that gratitude carefully,
like a light I didn’t earn
but was trusted to protect.

© Susie Stiles-Wolf