I sat in the love seat across from his wife. She stared at the floor. There were Budweiser coasters, a copy of The Old Testament, and shattered glass from the picture frame on the mahogany center coffee table. His son Brian was pressed against the wall, invisible.

He reemerged from the kitchen with a steaming Republican red coffee mug in hand. I bet he drinks his coffee black. He asked me why I was here, and I told him I was support. I asked him how he felt about his son. He said he had no son. Only one daughter.

His wife went to clean up the glass from the family photo. I explained that Brian had hoped he would accept him. He said he knew no Brian, only a Brianna. I said Brianna didn't exist, and his face tightened. The air thickened, heavy. The Taco Bell commercial tolled. Brian’s eyes screamed to say nothing more. I continued.

I asked how he felt about LGBTQ. Let em burn he said. His left foot caught on the carpet. Drops flew to rest in the crystalline remains of "what was" that stared up from the table.

Black coffee poured down his shirt, staining the plain white with rainbows.