Mum and I talked tonight.

“I already guessed!! I’m not surprised, not at all. You’re a good person, a good daughter, I’m glad you’re being honest, and I’m proud of you.”

So all is well. She made it clear that whatever happens, I’m always welcome in her home. She … doesn’t understand my reasons, of course. If she did, she’d be gone herself! But she understands that I’ve really had to think about this, that I’ve made a choice because it’s best for me, and she’s pleased about that.

So we talked, a little about my reasons, about my choices. About how my family may react (general consensus thus far is “Oh, OK. Pity, but whatever.”). You never know with family, do you? But, once again, I’ve underestimated Mum. It’s funny. I feel closer to her, now.

And, after the phonecall, I promptly burst into tears. Relieved? I don’t know. But whatever spring was wound up inside waiting for her reaction unwound at once, and I simply sobbed my heart out. Not because I’m sad. I’m not. Just knowing that this, one of the hardest things I’ve done thus far, has all turned out OK.

There was amusement, however. Mum, very nicely, asked if I’d mind putting off any of my … choices that wouldn’t be accepted by her faith for a few months, till I’d slipped off everyone’s mental radar. She particularly mentioned moving in with anyone. I was most tickled.