I Can’t Promise My Daughter a ‘Normal’ Future, But I Know She’ll Be Okay
By: Matthew Rotman
Tags: LGBTQ, Adoption, Family, Parenting, 2020

I was in middle school when I realized I was different. My friends were starting to talk about girls, and as much as I tried to fake it, I didn’t share in their excitement. I had discovered I was gay, and it was terrifying.

“Gay” was the ultimate insult you heard thrown around at recess. It was a fate worse than any other, and it had somehow fallen upon me. I dreaded every school dance, every game of Truth or Dare, every occasion that required me to hide my true self and reminded me that I was different from everybody else. I was 13 years old, and I was certain I would never have a normal life.

My preteen self would be surprised and relieved to know that today my life does look pretty normal. After coming out in my early twenties, I was able to live openly and honestly for the first time. Now I’m a thirty-something family man, I work a nine-to-five job, and I live in the suburbs with my spouse and 1-year-old daughter. It sounds every bit like the setup for a cheesy sitcom. In the summer we throw barbecues in the backyard; in the winter we build snowmen out front. But there’s a twist. Our family isn’t like the rest of the families on the block: Our family has two dads.

Back when I was a kid, a show like this wouldn’t have aired on TV. But times have changed, and being gay is not the stigma it used to be. Every day I reflect on how lucky I am to live in a time and place where a family like mine can find acceptance.

Yet, at the same time, every day I am reminded of the things that set me apart. There’s the repairman who asks whether my wife will be home on a weekday to let him in. The Mommy and Me classes that don’t seem to recognize our family makeup. The well-meaning store clerk who tells me my adopted daughter has my eyes. It’s never far from my mind how different I am, how different our family is, and as a new father who wants everything in the world for my baby girl, how different my daughter’s life is going to be.

My daughter’s world is a pretty small place. There are the toys that keep her entertained, the food she loves to shovel in her mouth, and the dads that read her books and tuck her into bed. Just last week she discovered that flashing a toothy grin makes people smile and laugh, and now she does it all the time. Her innocence gives me so much joy. I wish I could bottle it up before it fades away.

In a few years, our daughter will go off to school. She will have playdates with her friends. She will start watching TV. And slowly but surely, it will enter her consciousness that her family doesn’t look like most. We’ll do everything we can to prepare her. We’ll read her all the right books. We’ll expose her to other families that look like ours. We’ll tell her the story of her birth family, and we’ll assure her she was the greatest gift her dads could have ever received.

But no matter what, she’ll always be different.

No matter how special we make her feel, no matter how supportive are her teachers and friends, she’ll never be able to escape what sets her apart.

One day a classmate may tease her for having two dads.

One day a stranger may say she must make her mom proud.

One day she may be asked to make a Mother’s Day craft at school.

One day we might find her sulking in her bedroom while her friends and their moms have a girls’ night out.

One day, I fear, our daughter will feel just like I did in the seventh grade.

As parents, we want nothing more than to protect our kids. To some extent, we can succeed. We can ration their screen time, we can make them healthy dinners, and we can make sure they get to bed at a reasonable hour. But there are certain things about our kids we just can’t change.

I brought my daughter into a same-sex family, and now it’s a part of her identity, like the color of her eyes or the birthmark between her shoulder blades. It informs the way she’ll be seen, the way she’ll interact with others, and the way she’ll feel about herself. I want to give her the confidence to go through life proud of herself and her family. I want to guarantee that she’ll never feel shame for being different.

But the truth is, I can’t control my daughter’s journey. All I can do is give her a compass, point her in the right direction, and send her off into the world, hoping she’ll come out okay on the other side.

And like a good TV dad, I’ll be there to give her a hug at the end of every day.