Never Too Real by Carmen Rita

No one else in this family is gay. I’m pretty sure,” Magda assured.
    “Okay.” She stared into space now, sniffing and adding to her pile of wet tissues.
    “It’s going to be okay, Mami .” She patted her mother’s jeweled hand. Those gloves protect and cover so much, Magda noted.
    Miranda swung over Magda’s place setting and laid down her plate. Magda dug in.
    “Oh, Miranda, tan rico! ”
    “ Gracias, Magdalena. Disfrute .”
    As Magda moved her silverware swiftly from the plate to her mouth and back and forth, stifling her grumbling stomach, probably upset both from hunger and nerves, she looked at her mother.
    “ Mami, I’ll talk to him, okay? I’ll make sure things are all right.”
    “Okay, m’ija . I need to go lie down . . .” Her mother didn’t make eye contact, just pulled away gently from the table in a daze.
    But things weren’t going to be okay. When Papi got home, Magda tried her usual, casual greeting as if nothing had happened; as if her father hadn’t had a beauty-queen daughter—a tomboyish one, admittedly, but a glamorous one—for twenty-one years. Instead, this tall, blond, athletic-looking, gender-bending person in front of him.
    Again, there was no yelling. No throwing things, no threats. He gave his first-born daughter a look like a long, slow sip from a cup, then climbed the stairs slowly toward his wife, bed-bound in shock. Magda felt the ice of his eyes behind her as she attempted to walk nonchalantly to the driveway to greet one of her siblings, meeting her before she got inside the house just in case things got heated. But that stare from him, that stare, screamed and yelled and glowered a thousand decibels. It was the loudest she’d ever hear him, for decades.
    After going for a run on the local college track—sweat always cleared Magda’s head—she showered, changed, and checked in with her mother. It was nearing evening and all in the home remained eerily quiet. It seemed dark and the humidity inside hung low and tight like a fog. Without even turning around in bed, her back to Magda, the mother told her daughter that her father was out and it was best if she packed her bags and left before he came home after having too much to drink, potentially exploding at the sight of her clean-scrubbed face with rage at her betrayal, which is how he saw it: betrayal. Magda was a fighter, but she didn’t want to cause her mother more harm, more stress. She had known this might happen. She had hoped that it would not. She kissed her mother’s hand before she left, both of them crying, her mother’s hand still wet with wiped tears, and decided that it was best if she did do just that, leave. And as she raised herself up from her mother’s bed, Mami asked her to make sure she locked the bedroom door behind her, just in case.
    It was done. Magda was out. And it would be years before she’d ever see her father again. He came home after she had gone to bed, left then before she awoke, taking packed bags with him. He returned within a few days—once he knew Magda was gone. It then took a full year before Magda’s mother had the fortitude to see her daughter in person, having to carve some lies to get out from under the watchful eye of her husband. Magda’s choice created a house divided. Her siblings, all in their own youthful worlds of college and high school, fell to the side. They were hurt by the aftermath, living with an angry father and a quieted, meeker mother. They were too young to do anything but blame Magda, because to them, in those years, being gay seemed a choice. One maybe done by their much-stronger, more independent sister, selfishly. But only Mami remained on Magda’s side. She knew the only choice Magda made was in changing how she looked, not who she was. The distress at home still had her a bundle of nerves, but she was also unable to tear herself away from her firstborn child, gay and all.

Chapter 9
    “O h! Sorry . . . sorry.” Cat mumbled apologies as