Hey there! Here’s the fifth short story from my upcoming LGBT+ short story/advice collection, Everything Under The Rainbow! You can find out more about it on my Upcoming Releases page – just click here! Dad Jokes covers coming out to family members, but don’t worry – this is a happy story! Read on to find out how Lily comes out to her dad in Dad Jokes!
Dad Jokes
“Goodnight, darling. Sleep well.”
“Dad… can I talk to you for a sec?”
His hand pauses on the door frame, completely frozen. I gulp. It took a lot to say those words–days and days of planning and preparation, trying to figure out the right time, the right phrasing–but what am I meant to do now that they’re out?
Worry moves his hand. Worry makes his face appear, round and disarmingly friendly, as his brain tries to figure out what’s happening. I can guess a few of the options. Drugs. Pregnancy. Bullying. Disease. Well, maybe not disease–I’m only thirteen, it’s not like I’ve got the guts to go to the doctor’s on my own.
But everything else is up for grabs. The options thicken the air between us as he takes three tentative, dad-sized steps into my room, lowering himself onto my bed gradually. Like an old man. He’s old to me, but I’m not too young to think he’s the oldest person in the world. I know the slowness means something else.
I hate this. I hate worrying him. I want to grab him by the shoulders and yell it all at once, but I can’t. Forced to wait, I sit up and move a pillow to support my back, not quite meeting his eyes. This looks even worse. I’m ruining everything.
“What’s on your mind, Lils?” There’s brave confidence in his voice, not daring to tremble. He has to appear strong–he has to be the dad, not the terrified teenager. But I know he wishes he could be anywhere else right now. No one wants to deal with their troublesome kid, they just want to show up to sports games and awards evenings and congratulatory parents’ evenings. They don’t want complicated conversations at bedtime.
“I have something to tell you,” and I don’t even know if you’ll understand it but I have to tell you otherwise my heart will burst, “something really important. To me. I hope it’s important to you too.”
“… am I going to be a granddad?”
“Dad! I’m thirteen!”
Giggling a little, I take the moment to calm down. There are two options here: get it done with, or tread carefully and explore his knowledge first. The first choice is just ripping the plaster off, but it might make him confused. Confused people can lash out. Maybe not my dad, or at least the dad I know from all the time I’ve spent with him, but this… this can do weird things to people.
You want to know how someone really feels about you? Come out to them. Then you’ll know.
Gripping the duvet with one of my hands, I reach over and hold his large fingers with the other. Hairs grow on them, thick and black. They accompany short, stubby fingernails that never grow over the ends of his fingers. Dirt has found its way beneath them, somehow. Mum’ll get at him for that when he goes back to her. When I release him. Is that what this is? Some sort of social imprisonment?
He can leave if he wants to. He knows that. But he won’t, because I’m his daughter and he’s my dad, so we’re stuck here in my bedroom while darkness reigns outside and Mum has a bath. It sounds like a bath, anyway. Some sort of water. She could just be taking hand-washing really seriously. Or a shower, but that’s less fun than thinking she might’ve turned into Lady Macbeth.
High school really is taking over my brain.
“I’m not pregnant,” I reiterate, just in case my outburst wasn’t clear enough, “and I’m not sick. I’m not drinking or smoking or doing drugs.”
“That’s… that’s everything I thought of,” he sheepishly admits, counting down each idea on the fingers of his free hand, until all that’s left is a harmless fist, “so it’s nothing life-changing, then?”
“Maybe–sort of–I mean–” this isn’t going great. It’s not the absolute worst-case scenario, but it’s definitely not the best either. “Dad, I’m asexual. And aromantic.”
I can barely believe I just said those words. Relief courses through my veins, pulsing and rushing into every part of my body. For a moment, I’m not in my room. I’m somewhere else. Anywhere else. A cloud. A desolate mountain top. A planet with tiny green aliens. My fingers are dipping into stardust, golden and silver and shiny. It’s getting everywhere, just like glitter. A sun shines down, then another. A field with grass so green it seems juicy, bursting with energy. An apple falls onto my head. I pick it up and see my face.
Then I’m back, and Dad is grinning.
“Hello ‘asexual and aromantic’, I’m Dad.”
Silence. A long moment where I’m trying to figure out if he really just said that. Yeah. He just went there. Humour is a great way to break the ice, I guess, and at least we’re away from the pregnancy questions, but… I’m still in shock. Seriously. A dad joke. Right now. Typical Dad, I guess.
“By the way, I have no idea what you just said.”
There’s still a wide smile on his face. There’s something in it, understanding and sympathy and perplexment and all sorts of different things which turn into that smile. Unassuming. Waiting. Wanting to learn. Just wanting to see me happy, I guess. Everything the ideal parent should be.
It’s not bad, me being asexual and aromantic, and I guess I technically don’t have to tell anyone about it. It’s personal. But I wanted to tell him. I’ve always been so open with him. He’s… he’s great. He really is.
I’m so lucky to have him as my dad.
“Asexual means I don’t feel sexual attraction to people,” saying ‘sexual’ to a parental figure feels weird, but I get through the ick and carry on, “and aromantic means I don’t feel romantic attraction to people.”
“Medical?”
“Not really.”
“Bad?”
“Definitely not.”
“Makes you happy?”
“Sort of? It’s just who I am.”
“That’s like being an Ashwood supporter, that,” he shakes his head, a mock-frown turning his lips downwards, “great one week and rubbish the next. Just who I am, right? Like who you are?”
“… sure, Dad, sure.” I’m not going to tell him how angry the internet would be at him comparing sexualities to football teams. Instead, I nod and squeeze his hand, thankful for any little glimmer of understanding. “So… you’re fine with it?”
“No babies, right?”
“Dad. I’m thirteen.”
“Just checking!” He chuckles, pulling me into a bear hug which brings me way too close to the scent of sweat and weird aftershave. I feel bad for Mum sometimes.
But I love him and I wrap my arms around his back to try and show that nothing has changed. There’s a lot less weight on my shoulders now, but that’s about it. Nothing else. I’m playing with the word ‘life-changing’ on my tongue, rolling it around and wondering. It depends on how you use it, but maybe my coming out is life-changing, and maybe it isn’t. Technically, my life is now changed, just the same as my life would be changed if I was hit by a car tomorrow or if I bought a blue pen instead of a red one.
Life-changing is such a vast word.
It’s changed my dad’s life, a little bit. He was worried, and now he’s not. Although he’ll joke around whether he’s worried or not, I know there’s genuineness behind his smile. It’s not negatively life-changing, but it’s also not a lucky night at a talent show which sky-rockets me into super-stardom. It’s just a little thing.
I’m sort of lucky, really. There’s no ‘bringing the partner home’ bit to coming out with me. Just me and my school bag walking through the front door every day. I guess that’s something. It has taken me months to work out what was going on for years–all my friends getting crushes and ‘boyfriends’ that lasted for a few weeks if they even lasted to the end of the day. Meanwhile, I never felt anything. Still don’t.
But I’m completely at peace with that, and myself.
“You know, I’m really glad it’s not drugs,” he says, pulling back from the hug and looking at me semi-seriously, “because drug dealers are some bad nuts. I bought shoes from one once; I ended up tripping everywhere!”
“Dad!” Face-palming, I can only shake my head and sigh. That’s a barely related dad joke, the worst sort. Somehow, they’re now popping up in my mind like wild beasts in a nature documentary. There’s the large herd of general dad jokes, then the pairs of specific dad jokes. Lurking in the bushes is a rare dad joke, the ‘almost good’ one which pounces out of nowhere and disappears just as quickly.
If I’m not careful, he’s going to make me insane. Hopefully not today, though, because I’m too happy to be insane today. Everything went okay. As okay as I can expect, I guess–there’s no rainbow carpet being rolled out for me, no rainbow cake (I can’t bake to save my life, as my burnt muffins from Year Seven can attest) and no celebrity appearances, but this is real life. This is my life, and I’m happy with how it went. Content. I can already see myself having the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had, with nothing to worry me.
Except for that test next week.
Oh, and the homework due in on Wednesday.
Is my uniform out of the wash?
Never mind. Seems like I’ve got plenty to worry about, but not this any more. No more ‘coming out worries’ for me! Well… I still have to tell Mum. I guess I could tell my brother, but he’ll probably be too busy glueing his eyes to his games console to notice. My friends already know–the good ones, at least–and it doesn’t really concern anyone else. Teachers don’t need to know. Aunties and uncles can figure it out after a few years, or just keep on asking about a boyfriend. ‘Or a girlfriend’, they say, trying to make out that it’s never a second, extra option, even though it always is. Boyfriend questions always come first.
Girlfriend questions start later when everyone’s had too much to drink at family gatherings.
“I’ll tell Mum if you want me to,” he smiles again, and I start to suspect some sort of joke is coming out, but, in all seriousness, it’ll be such a relief if he can do that, “and your brother. At some point. I never see him–does he still live here?”
“I’m surprised you can’t hear him swearing all the time,” I comment cheekily, testing the waters. Are we cool? His laugh tells me we’re cool. My heart stops beating quite so fast. Not completely, though. That would be an entirely different but still pretty terrible problem.
As if on cue, a bold, lone expletive attacks my wall from the other side: the joys of having a bedroom directly next to your brother’s. Not long after, there’s a tiny beep. I know these noises so well that they’re practically my personal night-time symphony. The games console has been turned on, which means the gaming must begin. Will it be until 2 AM or 3 AM? Maybe he’ll go for a record and stay up until 5 AM. That would be impressive, but I’d rather not feel like I’m sleeping next to a war-zone for the next seven hours.
There’s some thought going on within Dad’s forehead, some sort of weighing up. Pros and cons of telling my brother off, I bet. I don’t really blame them, him and my mum, for mostly giving up on the gaming issue, though. He gets up on time and gets passing grades. The only problem is that he somehow manages to function on minus eight hours of sleep.
I’m assuming that staring at all those bright pixels subtracts sleeping hours, but don’t quote me on that brilliant science.
“I will always love you and support you,” Dad starts, but now I’m not sure whether it’s because I just came out or because he wants me to do something, “but if you ever find a way to shut your brother up and get him to sleep on time, I will double your pocket money.”
“What’s that got to do with love?” Sitting here confused, I tilt my head to the side as a familiar theme tune, a little muffled by the wall, starts up. Is it bad that I recognise the music but have no idea what the game actually is? “And trust me, if I could stop him being a normal teenage boy, I would.”
“That’s my girl,” patting me on the head, he starts to get off the bed, groaning and grunting for good measure before springing up and waving his hand in a mini bow. He’s… he’s definitely a character, that’s for sure. “Oh, should I tell the cat as well?”
“… the cat has a name. She is called Tinkerbell.” I point out, heavily emphasising her name in the hopes that one day he’ll stop exclusively calling her ‘the cat’. Too young to notice these things when we first got her, it took me years to stop also calling her ‘the cat’, after I realised her name was actually ‘Tinkerbell’–and I named her in the first place. The shame haunts me to this day.
“I’ll let you tell the cat. Goodnight, asexual and aromantic!”
Before I can protest, he’s out of the room, shutting the door carefully like he always does. The click is almost comforting just due to its familiarity. My brother’s endless noise, however, is less comforting, despite its frequency. Hearing my dad pop his head in his door and ask for the volume to be turned down is great.
He won’t turn the volume down, but it’s a nice gesture nonetheless.
Well… I survived. Nervousness and butterflies and sweaty hands have nothing on me. Not even Dad’s dad jokes could discourage me. I told myself this morning that I’d come out to him today, him first out of everyone living under this roof. If he took it badly… I don’t know what I would have done. But he didn’t! That is a very important thing I must remember.
“DIE! EVIL SCUM! YOU ******* ****** ************! ****! I DIED!”
The other very important thing is to search for ways to cure my brother of his video gaming addiction. The internet must have answers. It always has answers; their frequency isn’t the problem, just their trustworthiness. Maybe transferring him onto some nicer game might work. A farming simulator, or a puppy makeover, or a driving game where you’re constantly capped at 20 mph–
“I HATE YOU ALL! **** WHY DIDN’T YOU ******* REVIVE ME? STUPID *****!”
Actually, I’d feel too sorry for the NPCs. Nobody deserves to listen to his half-baked abuse. Cold turkey is probably the best option for him.
But that’s another struggle for another day. Right now, I need to roll over and scroll on my phone for hours and go to sleep.
Huh? What was that bit in the middle?
Nothing.
Goodnight, asexual and aromantic.
Author’s Note – This is a draft of a to-be-published work. The content may be altered or changed prior to publishing. This is not indicative of the exact content of the published work.
OSKAR LEONARD
Oskar Leonard 