Chapter One #3
Surely, he didn’t plan to have a big wedding and invite a ton of people.
He had a handful of close friends in the LA area, many of whom were also gay.
I figured he’d ask them to attend. As for me, besides Kevin, I’d told no one my dad was gay, not even my work colleagues, who’d spent their careers fighting for social justice issues.
I kept my personal and professional lives very separate. I preferred it that way.
“Hmm, I’ll ask Oliver. But I think he wants a real wedding. And I want to give it to him. It’s something to celebrate. We’ll do it here in LA and keep it small. Just some family and close friends. I’m hoping Anthony will come out with Donna and the kids. And I want Henry there too.”
Henry. Of course he’d want Henry there. I could never really understand their relationship.
They’d cheated on their wives with each other, betraying their children and their families.
They’d broken their marriage vows, eventually broken up their tryst, and then broken apart their families.
Yet they’d stayed the closest of friends all these years.
Now my dad wanted Henry at his wedding. To his current lover.
I swear you can’t make this shit up.
“Lena, if you could research places for the ceremony and reception, that would be a big help. I know you’re good at that. Someplace by the water.”
I couldn’t believe this. “Dad, I don’t know. I have a case at work that’s going to demand a ton of time over the next few months. Besides, wouldn’t you and Oliver like to do the planning for yourselves? I mean, it’s going to be your big day after all.”
“Yeah, but we want you to be involved. We thought this would be a good role for you.”
A good role. What an accurate phrase, I thought.
I would certainly play a role. Many of them.
The role of a civil rights attorney championing equality on all levels—including LGBTQ rights—who couldn’t be happier to support diversity in my family.
The role of the loyal daughter ready and willing to plan her gay father’s second wedding to his partner.
But where was the loyalty he was supposed to show to my mother when they were married? To his kids?
I shook my head, trying to snap out of this funk. That was a long time ago. I was an adult now. I should be happy for my father.
“And, honey, I want you to be one of our witnesses for the ceremony. Kind of like a best man.”
“Oh, don’t you want to ask Anthony?”
“Yes, he’ll be the other witness. The two of you.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“No, I’ll call him as soon as we hang up, because it’s getting late in New York.”
“Got it.”
Fine, let him break the news to Anthony himself. One less awkward thing for me to deal with. Oh man, do I have to talk to Anthony about this?
“When were you thinking of having the wedding?” I asked.
“October.”
Is he kidding me? How am I supposed to plan a wedding in only four months with this big trial coming up and everything else on my docket?
But I didn’t protest. When my dad made up his mind, that was it.
No use fighting him on it. He was always so impulsive.
I just wished he’d been able to tame some of his impulses over the years.
“That’s only four months away,” I said.
Four months to process that my father was marrying again after all these years. Four months to figure out how to accept that. Four months to convince myself I wasn’t stabbing Mom in the back. We both said nothing. The silence was thick between us.
“Well, at least you aren’t planning on doing it this summer,” I finally said, giving in.
I was always trying to solve the issues, be the perfect hostess, make it all happen.
My perfectionism clung to me like an extra layer of skin I couldn’t shed.
It was my way of dealing with the messy family dynamics I grew up with.
It didn’t matter how grown up I was, how accomplished I was at my career, or how happy I was in my marriage.
With my family, I often became exactly who I’d always been—the dutiful daughter trying to manage the wreckage.
I stepped right back into that role as if it were carved for me in stone.
If I were going to plan this event, at least I could somewhat control it.
I’d plan the wedding in a secluded place, where there was no chance of meeting anyone I knew.
“I’m so happy,” my dad said, his voice quivering.
“Good, I’m happy for you.” I wasn’t nearly as emotional. I sounded like someone trying to encourage herself to be happy. Which then made me feel guilty. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted to be happy for him. “Dad, I have to run. It’s been a long workday, and I’m finally about to eat dinner.”
“This late? Okay, get going. You work too hard. Go eat.”
“I will. Congratulations, Dad. And pass on my congrats to Oliver too.”
“I will. Thanks, Lena. I really appreciate it. Love you.”
He always said that before we hung up, a habit he’d started when I was eighteen, when we came together after years of estrangement.
Dad 2.0 wasn’t afraid to show his emotions.
You always knew how he felt and where you stood.
I wished he’d been that much of an open book when I was younger.
I’d spent most of my childhood trying to read him and figure out who he was, what he’d been hiding, and why.
“Love you too, Dad. See you Sunday.” I felt like I’d just finished one of my long runs—depleted—though I was at the beginning of this race. The details of the next few months loomed before me like tall hurdles to leap. But logistics were where I excelled.
“Bye, honey.”
I hung up. Hearing my dad’s voice excitedly announcing he was getting married again felt like a tidal wave knocking me over. Why didn’t I see this coming?
My dad and Oliver seemed to be a great match.
But I hadn’t thought my dad would ever get married again.
He was a divorced man who’d been married a long time ago to my mother.
Now he was the groom-to-be. Engaged. I couldn’t help worrying that my father remarrying, especially to his same-sex partner, would somehow erase my parents’ marriage and our family.
My stomach growled, reminding me of my dinner.
I served my plate of spaghetti and peas and poured some more wine.
Atticus sat at my feet, partly under the table and partly sticking out because of his large girth.
I placed my bare feet on his fur and rubbed back and forth.
He leaned into me to get a firmer massage along his back.
I twirled a big wad of spaghetti around my fork the way my mother had taught me then stared at the pasta coated with red gravy and a few stray peas, my appetite gone.
I dropped the fork onto the plate with a clatter. Atticus flinched.
“Sorry, buddy,” I cooed. I pushed the plate away, grabbed my wine, and took a long, slow sip.
Oh, the irony. Of course Dad had to go and select the date that our family had fallen apart to announce that he was getting married again.
I was sure he didn’t remember that this was the anniversary of the incident.
But still... the fact that he’d picked this day, of all days, to drop this bomb on me felt like an omen.
I signed onto Facebook to distract myself.
I hadn’t been on social media for a few days, since posts about the Supreme Court decision had flooded my feeds—most celebratory, some ugly.
When social media was blowing up with news of the decision, I’d chimed in, posting about the historic weight of it.
I was thrilled about the legal strides made in recent years.
Heck, I was part of making those strides as a deputy US attorney, but that was my professional life, not my personal one.
Despite the upbeat mood online, I saw the seed of hatred like a spot staining my retina from looking directly at the sun.
It was still there, lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce, gaining momentum, becoming angrier and bolder.
It was like the decision bestowing rights was oil thrown on an open flame, sparking an even bigger fire.
That was what was going through my mind—and it made me sick to be focusing on the negativity, unable to bask in the glow of such a momentous occasion and see past the ugliness.
When I saw those hateful comments, a wave of protectiveness toward my father spread through me, which surprised and gladdened me.
I didn’t know how to explain to others my fear that my father was different, stood out, and was a target of the hateful people of the world.
I checked my Facebook wall and froze. Oh my God.
My father had already posted about his engagement and tagged me.
I had no idea how the hell that had happened—my privacy settings on social media were airtight.
I had made sure of that. Dammit. Facebook must have done yet another update that canceled out my privacy selections.
I quickly went into the post and untagged myself, praying that, in the short time between my conversation with my dad and this post, none of my connections had seen it.
I scrolled through the reactions and comments.
Fortunately, all of them were from my dad’s connections, none from mine.
I felt instant relief—and then guilt over my reaction.
My life had been shaped by this one fact—that I was the daughter of a gay father.
Yet I still hid it. That was the Antinori family way.
My mother had instituted a gag order, forbidding us from revealing that Dad was gay.
And I loved my mom, so I'd done just that my entire life, religiously adhering to the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy long before the US military instituted it.
It was our way of trying to maintain a peaceful existence.
My mom’s familiar mantra ran through my mind—“No reason to air your dirty laundry”—a phrase that had ruled my childhood as we navigated our family secret.