We’re sitting at dinner, eating his mom’s delicious homemade “chicken parm!” when his father admonishes us:

“Just so you know, some of them might take the supportive thing a little overboard. They just want to make sure that you know they’re okay with you.”

He’s warning us about the following Saturday, where my boyfriend will be, for the first time, spending time with his extended family as an out gay man. I’ll be there too, meeting an extended family for the first time as someone’s out gay boyfriend. Heavy stuff.

Nevertheless, I find the admonishment funny, as it seems curious to be warned that people will be too accepting. It’s like warning someone that their meal might taste uncomfortably good or that their clothes might come out of the wash unusually clean. Warnings, I feel, should generally be reserved for bad things. Like my family.

So, as promised, a week later I got to meet his extended family. They were a boisterous, loving bunch — the kind who can come together at a moment’s notice to collectively screen the love interest of one of their own. I spent the evening answering questions and hiding behind food. It wasn’t until the night was almost done when one of his aunts came up and pulled my partner and me aside.

“I want to talk to you two — out on the porch.”

Instantly, I got a lump in my throat, and I automatically clicked into Diplomatic Mode, which is what happens whenever I perceive a threat. Usually, by speaking calmly and professionally, I can diffuse whatever strong emotion is coming at me enough for me to make it out alive. I do it all the time with my students’ parents, but my resolve to be composed was less comforting than usual because, at that moment, without a thirteen-year-old around to balance things out, I felt much more like a child than an adult.

We stepped out onto the porch, and I was already mentally rehearsing collected, diffusive answers when the aunt surprised me by putting her arms on both of us and simply saying, “I am so glad he found you”. What followed made the three of us, as well as another aunt who joined us mid-conversation, cry and smile and remember why love is such a powerful thing.

“I don’t speak English that well,” she continued, “but I want you to know, it makes me angry that people… that some people can’t accept who you love. I think that people, you know… that we’re all human. That’s all we are, and we should be here to make the people around us happy.”

She turned to my partner, “I’m so sorry you thought that people would never accept you. We love you! Everyone loves you! And it’s great to see how happy you are. I’m so glad you’re happy.

“I don’t know why some people like to draw so many lines and make so many groups. They’re always saying ‘oh, the Blacks this’ or ‘something else that’, and it… I don’t like it. I don’t think we need to have all these different groups because, you know, people just use them to judge. We’re all humans. We’re all humans.”

Any thoughts of diplomacy or its necessity were far gone at this point, as I was more concerned with wiping my eyes and trying not to sniffle too much. What I had thought was going to be an assault turned out to be a touching, heartfelt affirmation. Not like my family.

We talked some more on the porch — probably a good half-hour. His aunt said some more beautiful things, his other aunt interrupted with some equally beautiful and often legitimately hilarious things, and my boyfriend and I, for the first time in our relationship, smile-wept collectively in front of two middle-aged women. Less-heavy stuff.

When we finally started back inside — warmth on our faces, water in our eyes, and loads off our backs — I lingered at the door, pulling my boyfriend in close.

“You okay?”, I asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m great,” I said, smiling.

“I love you.” Amazing words to hear.

“I love you too.” Amazing words to say.

And absolutely incredible words to feel. For all of us humans.