The envelope was labeled “Do not read until after I’m in school.” It sat, unnoticed during the morning rush to get to school. Late spring in Maine means that in addition to some color finally appearing on the landscape, school activities amp up, as do work projects. It’s a beautiful, hopeful, happy time of year. True to our routine, I drove Tim to school, chatting about everything and nothing. We planned to meet at his lacrosse game later that afternoon.

As I washed breakfast dishes before heading to my home office I noticed the note. Tim was and is a gifted writer who has often been more comfortable expressing himself in writing , so a note from him was not unusual. I opened it casually and started reading as I headed back to my office.

Unlike any other notes we exchanged, this one was a life changer. It began with Tim’s assurance that not only did he think I was doing a bang up job as his mother – this was his way of letting me know that my new status as a single mom was not scarring him for life – it also stated emphatically that he felt he was a happy, well-adjusted kid.

The next paragraph went straight to the heart of the matter. “I wanted to let you know that I’m gay.”

In order to understand the impact of Tim’s unequivocal declaration, some background is in order. From the second he came into this world, Tim has been unique. Because of his older sister’s complex medical issues – that’s another blog post altogether – a high risk neonatologist who was coincidentally a good friend attended Tim’s C-section delivery.

“Candace, there’s a problem,” he said, as my son was delivered from the neat slit through skin and muscle, blessedly shielded from my line of sight. “His ear is deformed. We can’t be sure if anything else is affected.”

“Does that mean he wouldn’t be able to go into the military?” I slurred in an anesthesia-induced haze, trying to make drugged up lemonade out of lemons.

After a battery of tests in the first weeks of his life, Tim was eventually diagnosed with hemifacial microsomia, a birth defect that varies in severity from minimal to profound, but usually presents with an ear deformity and facial asymmetry. Tim’s “Little Ear” looks a tiny, pink nautilus shell, sitting daintily under his dark brown curls, or in bold relief when he shaves his head. On that side he has no hearing, no ear canal, and no nerve conduction. His facial asymmetry seems no more noticeable than my own, other than a pair of charmingly mismatched nostrils.

Because children with hemifacial microsomia can have other medical and psychological problems, Tim saw a team of specialists at Boston Children’s Hospital from the time he was two. He was poked and prodded, questioned and tested. Tim was the kind of kid who never met a stranger. He was an early talker and reader, who loved engaging with the doctors, nurses, appointment secretaries and parking attendants during his hospital visits.