When I came to my mother, she tore up my birth certificate and sent it to me.

I sat in my therapist’s office, holding the pieces in my hand and muttering: “I can’t believe my mom is so passive-aggressive.” My therapist paused, looked at me, and said: “I wonder. “Does this fall more into the ‘aggressive-aggressive’ category?”

I was very new to therapy, and apparently very new to the concept of passive aggression.

Friends wondered if I had underestimated my mother’s born-again Christian enthusiasm when I decided to come out to her. But I knew she enthusiastically wore her cute QVC outfits and perfect face makeup to church every Sunday morning. And every Sunday night. And Wednesday night (for Bible study) and Thursday night (for choir study). He had lots of clothes from QVC and a great love for Jesus, as well as a strict obedience to the moral dichotomies he believed his faith required: sinful or sinless, bad or good, heaven or hell.

Even before I came along, our relationship wasn’t simple. After a failed tubal ligation, I was born the last of five children with nearly as many different fathers; my grandmother described some of these as “truly first-class assholes.” My mother had been raising children for nearly forty years and needed a relaxed, cheerful child—but instead she got me: a sensitive tomboy who insisted on using “Kelli Sam” instead of Kelli Sue.

My mother could also be a bundle of contradictions: Time and time again, she would choose her husband of the week over her children, but she would also bake us seven kinds of cookies at Christmas—including homemade fudge from scratch.

Like many women of her generation, between bad husbands and limited options, my mother didn’t seem to see the many benefits of feminism. “We didn’t call it ‘me too,'” he said with a shrug, “We just called it life.”

What was I thinking you were going to do? Paint your face in rainbow colors and march alongside PFLAG parents, get free hugs at Pride?

But in my late 20s, I finally found my people in Philly’s gay community, my love for my first serious girlfriend, and my purpose in nursing. I tried not to openly lie to my mother, but the open spaces in our conversations where I could communicate my broader experience of connection, belonging, and meaning felt like an invisible hand separating us.

I was hoping my revelation would bring us closer.

The benefits of following Jesus were immediately apparent to my mother. He believed the prayers of church leaders had saved him from demons, including his more than one-pack-a-day cigarette habit. I had left the church years ago with the slightest guilt but no regrets, and while my own faith journey had taken a different path, there was no doubt that hers had given her something of value.

Still, as I held those little pieces of paper, I couldn’t help but think about the sparkly WWJD pins in different colors, each matching a different QVC team. What would Jesus do if one of his disciples came to him? Could he stop feeding 5,000 people, quickly wipe his hands on his robes to remove fish scales and nut crumbs, and dramatically tear apart the piece of papyrus documenting his connection with that student? It was a little hard to imagine.

It was also difficult to imagine what my mother hoped to achieve with her largely symbolic act. Destroying government-sanctioned evidence of our relationship (even if it’s a notarized copy) does not make that person your child. I felt the sucker punch of rejection, but I also felt a little skeptical; If he were to reject me, I would request additional documents.

His response was to convey his feelings (or perhaps beliefs) about homosexuality, but dramatically tearing up a birth certificate was the kind of over-the-top display I could imagine a drag queen participating in onstage.

At the county clerk’s office, I turned in the junk to get a new one. The clerk looked at me, handed me an expedited form at no extra charge, and said: “We get most of this. From people who look like you.”

Ha. My mother’s idea wasn’t as unique as she thought.

Neither of us mentioned the coming out/birth certificate confetti exchange after that surprising initial reaction. Without stopping.

Instead we kept talking. We had short phone calls, very short holiday visits and polite conversations. He never asked about my dating life—probably afraid that admitting it would be like confirming sin—but he did ask about my pets and my health insurance deductibles, and once sent me a cat-shaped watch from QVC. The alarm sound was a gradually increasing “meooooow” sound.

We maintained this cautious façade of a relationship for half a dozen years, and I came to believe that the real relationship with my mother was just a casualty in my journey to becoming myself.

Then my partner Heather, 38, died after a long battle with ovarian cancer. My mother may not have fully understood the depth of my grief, but she reached out to me with logistical support; a gift card for food delivery and a gift card for groceries.

Later that year, my mother’s husband, a retired Army colonel whom she then only called “Colonel,” became deathly ill. I visited him to help with hospice recruitment and prepared to return the week after his death.

“If you really want to come, let me buy your flight with miles,” he texted, “but promise me you’re not coming because you feel obligated.”

My mother was surrounded by a loving church community. My siblings were all cheerful Midwestern utility trousers who grew up in a big family and were therefore excellent at taking turns. I didn’t feel obligated in any way.

“I know you’re all campaigning to get into the Midwest Conflict Avoidance Hall of Fame,” a worried friend asked me as I helped me pack, “but are you sure that’s a good idea?”

My therapist was more direct. “So what’s your plan?”

I had no plans. Actually, I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. But my mother opened the door, so I went in.

Once the initial chaos of post-mortem logistics and funeral planning was complete, my mother’s home was slow and quiet. Every morning, I would sit on my mother’s bed and watch her do her makeup, which she called “applying my face.” I wanted to reassure him that everything would be okay, that he would feel better soon. But I knew it wasn’t true.

In the weeks after Heather’s death, I thought about my friend Stacy, sitting next to me on our purple leopard-print couch. He rarely broke the silence unless I spoke first, but occasionally he would make a silent suggestion. Maybe I’d like to take a shower? Or do I just change my socks? Would I feel a little less nauseated if I ate something other than spray cheese straight from the can?

So for 10 days I sat next to my mother on her overstuffed leather couch, mostly in silence. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need this.

When I was ready to go home, he hugged me so tightly I thought my eyes would pop out of their sockets.

“I’m so grateful you know what to do. “I’m sorry you lost your wife.”

Until then, he had only referred to Heather as “my friend.”

Wife wouldn’t be the word I would choose, but I appreciated what that word cost him.

I made my mom a silly grief guide out of a black and white polka dot composition notebook. Inside, I pasted cartoons, photos of cute animals, and questionable suggestions like this: “Affirmations don’t have to be assertive to be useful. ‘I’m just going to get out of bed for today’ is a great start.”

With the permission of the photo kelli dunham “data-src = https: //s.yimg.com/ny/api/res/1.2/h6zbqcqbcd3dwcyl7EPP4A–/yxbwawq9aglnagxhbmrlcjt3pteyndı7ad0xnju2/https: //media.zenf.com aol_huffPost_us_657/0 01dc985517dd80f834366b9e5223c80>

The process of mourning the death of a domineering burlesque diva and a retired Army colonel was perhaps more similar than you might think, although my mother was much more careful about writing thank-you cards for funeral attendance. Something has changed between us.

A few years later, when I was scheduled for knee replacement surgery, my mother offered to help.

I told him there was no need to come if he felt obliged. I was surrounded by a loving gay community. All my friends were radical New York City helpers who embraced the culture of mutual aid. We were excellent at showing off.

I dreamed that my mother’s friends asked if it was a good idea. I imagined his pastor asking him—more directly—what exactly the plan was.

Did he have a plan? I opened the door. He came in.

She arrived at my apartment armed with her sloppy joe recipe, the two baking sheets she brought with her, and somehow every ingredient needed for seven different types of Christmas cookies. Even though it’s January, there are grocery stores in Brooklyn.

Photo courtesy of Kelli Dunham” data-src=https://s.yimg.com/ny/api/res/1.2/ITndaHf1fHzhh4gDnmR_Nw–/YXBwaWQ9aGlnaGxhbmRlcjt3PTEyNDI7aD0xNjU2/https://media.zenfs.com/en/aol_huffpost_us_657/f4 d. b16c8ae60b8fb2d65f090c2e36cf6>

After surgery, my mother sat next to me on a third-hand black Ikea couch while my chosen family from Brooklyn paraded. He asked Bryn for the recipe for green bean casserole and asked where Felice bought her fancy snowman socks. Were all my friends this dedicated and this committed to changing the world?

He pointed to our clock, which was stamped with “Queer Study Hall,” the unofficial name of our apartment.

“Does everyone have a name for their house?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically, looking amused.

After a while he looked around. “I understand,” he said. “This is your church.”

“Church” wasn’t the word I would have chosen, but I appreciated what that word had going for it.

My mom didn’t join PFLAG or ask if she could take all her grandkids to Drag Queen Story Hour at the library, or even put up a “Love is love” sign in the yard, although I think QVC sells those now. Words like “wife” and “church” were symbols of willingness and perhaps felt like a miracle we could both believe in. But it was the quiet moments—her standing in my kitchen, me sitting on the couch—and it was vulnerability, not language, that helped us find each other.

If we had not decided to accept the help the other offered, if we had not remained open to communication, my mother and I might have remained in a cordial non-relationship forever. Sometimes people who seem like lost causes are surprisingly vulnerable to being found.

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