Mum wasn’t going to come to my wedding. It was hard, but I’d made peace with that. My girlfriend and I would get married without her blessing.
Then, two days before the big day, when we were already in New Zealand, I got a frantic call at 11pm at night. I answered it and it was her, crying and asking if she’d still be welcome. We said yes, of course, and she booked herself last minute flights to get to New Zealand.
When I first saw her outside the registry, all dressed up with her hair done and holding flowers, I burst into tears. She came up to me and touched my face, saying, “You look so happy. Both of you, you look so happy,” and gave us these roses.
They’re more than flowers to me.
They’re given to me by a women to cried and shouted and refused to talk about my sexuality for seven years after I came out to her. It may not seem like much: but she had to walk into that flower store and buy these. She had to choose roses - the symbol of love - for her gay daughter and her gay daughter’s ‘friend’. There’s an admission in that. There’s acceptance in that. These roses say, “I know you love each other,” and she gave them to us at our wedding, which she flew three thousand kilometres to attend.
I sobbed as she placed them in my hand.
Because nothing will ever touch what it feels like to finally, finally know your mother loves you just the way you are.