Mom always said she would not choose amongst her children.  We are her heirs, her offspring, her beloved progeny whose very lives are owed to her being.

Sometimes with disgust and sometimes with chastisement, she has made clear on many occasions that she will not be forced to select one above the other.

Then it comes to this: A brother, one of whom I know much and could squarely derail his holier-than-thou attitude, has taken it upon himself to ostracize me from the family, come hell or high water, simply because I’m gay.

When he found I was listed in the will and directive to physicians for my parents, he rebelled and adamantly declared no such thing could ever stand if he were to be involved.

When he found I was a listed health proxy for Mom should she be unable to make her own medical decisions, he felt it so revolting that he forced upon my parents the destruction of such documents.

Has he ever spoken to her of her wishes, of what she wants given unrecoverable health or an inability to decide for herself?

No.

Did he help them in their time of need to put together the legal framework necessary to protect their interests in case of emergency?

No.

Did he bother to provide aid when Mom was hospitalized for a week, when Dad was forced to manage the farm and home and his wife’s health?

No.

Yet somehow, in all his egotism and bigotry, he finds he is owed the latitude necessary to control what involvement I do and don’t have with my family.

When I came out to my parents almost two decades ago, they at first treated me like a pariah, even if unintentionally.  To the whole of my life before then, I became a stranger.

But over time—much time—Mom and Dad moved beyond the religious apprehension and unfounded revulsion.  And so did I.

Even Jenny can attest to the distance that once existed between my parents and I.  Many years later I moved beyond the hurt, the pain, and so did they.

Accepting who I am as who I am rather than the fictitious choice so many haters want to make it out to be, my father and mother accepted me as the soulful, loving, compassionate human I am, the one who was there for them when the beloved sons of straightness were not.

So why does my brother think it necessary to force upon Mom the choice she will never make?  Why does he feel it his place to attempt controlling that which is not his to control?

It’s nothing more complicated than this: selfishness.

When we find faults within ourselves, we project the most horrid evils upon those around us in an attempt to make ourselves look better, less vile, more deserving of whatever it is we want.

When we know we are wrong, we are never more destructive in our dealings with others.

And so lies the last breath of a dying child, my brother, a shameful human viciously attacking those around him despite whatever harm it causes those he calls loved ones.

Mom’s statement rests on the bedrock of love: I will not choose.

Shame on him who thinks himself so powerful as to make her do as much.