This isn’t easy to write. But if sharing this stops one person from making my mistakes, it’s worth it. My son, Jamie, came out to me when he was 19. I didn’t handle it well. Not because I hated him—I was scared. Scared of what our conservative family would say, scared of “losing” the future I’d imagined for him. So I said the worst thing a parent can say: “You’re confused. Get your act together, or don’t come home.” He didn’t come home. For five years, I clung to my pride like armor. My wife begged me to reach out. Relatives whispered at holidays: “Still no word from Jamie?” I’d shrug and change the subject, pretending his absence didn’t gut me. But at night, I’d stare at his senior photo—that crooked smile he got from his mom—and wonder if he was safe. If he hated me. Then, last December, my niece showed me his Instagram. I didn’t even know he had one. There he was: hair longer, tattoo on his wrist, laughing with friends in a city I’d never visited. And a post from Thanksgiving: “Chosen family > toxic blood. Grateful for people who see me.” The comment section was a punch to the throat. Strangers wrote things like “So proud of you!” and “You deserve love.” His own father hadn’t said any of that. I drank two glasses of whiskey and did something I hadn’t done since he left: I called him. He didn’t pick up. So I left a voicemail, rambling about how I was sorry, how I’d go to therapy, how I just wanted to hear his voice. He texted me one line: “Why now?” I didn’t have a good answer. So I told the truth: “Because I miss you. And I’m ashamed.” We met at a coffee shop a week later. I barely recognized him—older, sharper, a quiet confidence I’d never seen. I cried. He didn’t. He told me about the nights he couch-surfed after I kicked him out, the boyfriend who helped him heal, the panic attacks he still gets when someone raises their voice. I realized I’d become the villain in his story. Because I was one. It’s been eight months. We’re not okay. He calls his mom weekly but only texts me memes, and I know that’s more than I deserve. Last month, though, he invited us to his apartment for dinner. I brought his childhood teddy bear, dusty from the attic. He rolled his eyes but didn’t throw it out. Progress, I guess. I’m writing this because we throw around words like “unconditional love” but don’t act like it. If your kid trusts you enough to show you who they are, listen. Don’t let fear turn you into someone they need to survive. And if you’ve already messed up? Swallow your pride. Beg. Fight. Even if they never forgive you, they deserve to know you regret it. TL;DR: Told my gay son to “get his act together.” Lost half a decade with him. Don’t be like me. — A dad trying to undo the unforgivable (Share this if you believe love > fear. And if you’re holding onto hate… let go. Before it’s too late.)