When I was 20 years old, I came out to my parents. It was in a small Häagen-Dazs shop in Madrid, where they had come to visit me during a semester abroad.
“Mom, Dad… I’m… Christian.” They smiled awkwardly, struggling desperately to wrap their heads around this alien lifestyle while still attempting to look marginally supportive.
“Oh, Ryan,” Mom choked out. “Why do you have to call yourself a Christian?”
“Because I am one.”