The townhouse years were some of the best of my childhood. It was just my mom and me, and in many ways, she became more than a parent. She became my best friend. She worked hard, starting over with new jobs and new routines, but no matter how tired she was, she always made time for me. At home, life felt simple and good. But outside, my struggles only grew. The pressure, the stares, the careless jokes, they piled up as I got older. And slowly, I began down a path of poor decisions, bad choices, and a rocky road that would test me in ways I didn’t see coming.
Still, those years in the townhouse hold some of my favorite memories.
The townhouse itself was small but cozy, with two bedrooms and one bathroom. Mom rented it from someone who had bought it as an investment property. If I remember correctly, the rent was something like $500 a month. We were the second townhouse in from the end. You walked in the front door and the kitchen was immediately to the left. The stairs going up to the second floor were just to the right. A small dining area and living room made up the rest of the first floor, and there was a door to the fenced-in backyard off the living room. My bedroom was on the backside of the house at the top of the stairs, and my mom’s was on the front side, above the kitchen. We shared the bathroom in between. The unfinished basement held the washer and dryer.
Most nights it was just the two of us at the little dining table. We’d always eat something good. Because it was just the two of us, my mom made sure it was something we both liked. And while we ate, we’d talk about her day and mine. The TV in the living room hummed in the background, but our conversations were what I remember most. Sometimes she’d be exhausted, but she still leaned in and listened like whatever I had to say mattered. That table wasn’t just where we ate, it was where I learned I had a voice.
Guardrails Without Walls
One of the greatest gifts my mom gave me was the freedom to learn. She put up guardrails, sure, but she let me figure things out on my own. And she was always one step ahead of me.
She used to tell me, “I will never ground you or tell you that you can’t do something. If I do, and you really want to do it, you’ll just find a way to lie and sneak your way to it anyway. I’d rather we keep things open and honest. If I trust you to tell me the truth, I’ll always know where you are, and you won’t have to sneak or lie. I don’t want you to be the kid I was, sneaking out and lying to my parents.”
She was right, of course. And like I said, she was smarter than me.
Now that we were in the townhouse and living in a neighborhood, I was able to hang out with other kids. So, as I was starting ninth grade, I asked her what time she wanted me home at night. Her answer was simple: “Just let me know what time you plan on being back, or if you leave the neighborhood. If you’re going to be later than you said, just call or stop in to let me know. No curfew.”
When my friends asked what time I had to be home, I’d shrug and say, “I don’t have a curfew.” They were all jealous. Their parents made them be home when the streetlights came on or by a set time, while I was free to come and go as I pleased.
But the joke was on me. My mom knew something I didn’t: when all the other kids went home for their curfews, I’d be left standing around alone and bored. And when that happened, I’d just wander home too. My mom didn’t need to set a curfew because she knew the world would do it for her.
New Jobs, New Life
During the day, she apprenticed as a cabinet maker, learning a trade in a world where women weren’t often welcomed. At night, she worked as a bartender at Club Mitchell, a lesbian bar in Baltimore.
Club Mitchell was more than just my mom’s second job, it was a community. Sometimes I tagged along, soaking in the atmosphere. Laughter rolled across the room, big and unfiltered, like nothing I heard anywhere else. I’d sit in my corner, sipping a Diet Coke, watching women dance, watching them live free. Outside, the world told them to hide. Inside, they didn’t have to. And by being there, neither did I.
The women there treated me like family. Well, at least the women in the front half of the bar.
When you walked into Club Mitchell, as I remember it, the bar stretched along the left, the dance floor lit up the right, and the music poured out of an incredible sound system (as every good gay bar seemed to have). But the bathrooms were tucked all the way in the back. And to get there, you had to pass through the dimly lit section of tables in the back half of the bar. That’s where the “biker dykes” hung out.
Now, to be clear, that was my mom’s term, not mine. I would never use it myself, partly out of respect, and partly because I’m still a little scared of them to this day. Back then, they seemed larger than life, like guardians of the back half of the bar.
One night, while I was hanging out (safely in the front half, of course), someone handed me an “honorary lesbian” button. I wore it proudly. At the time, it just felt like fun, like being let in on something special. Looking back, I see it for what it was: a place where I belonged, even when the world outside didn’t always make me feel that way.
Softball games continued too, a thread from the years with Sue. There were still dinners, laughter, and my mom’s friends filling the house with life. It was stability, but it was also freedom. A new chapter built just for us.
One of my favorite memories was the night Susan and Jackie came over for dinner. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a simple evening with dear friends, filled with great food and plenty of laughs. After dinner, they said their goodbyes, gave us hugs, and headed out to their car. We closed the door behind them, thinking the night was over.
About five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. It was Susan and Jackie, doubled over with laughter, tears running down their cheeks. Apparently, when they left, they had walked up to a car that looked exactly like theirs. Same make, same model, same color. Jackie put the key in, unlocked it, hopped in, and started the engine. Off they went, none the wiser. They were about half a mile down the road before they realized it wasn’t their car.
Who knew? But back in the ’80s, some car manufacturers only used a few different key cuts. So yes, it was entirely possible for your key to work in someone else’s car. Needless to say, Susan and Jackie turned around, parked the “borrowed” car back where they found it, and then located their real one before finally heading home.
We laughed about that story for years.
My Mom’s Heart
My mom also started dating again. First there was Helen, a young military woman. Helen was kind, but she carried a constant edge of fear. She was terrified of being discovered and thrown out of the military, and that fear hung over everything. She was also very clingy, but that’s okay, I guess. Straight or gay, no kid enjoys their mom showing PDA, lol.
Later, my mom met Debi. And Debi was different. She was steady, funny, grounded, and from the beginning, I could see how happy she made my mom. I absolutely adored Debi and still do to this day. Even though they came together just as I was starting out on my own, I felt nothing but gratitude that my mom had finally found someone who loved her in a way that lasted.
Shortly after the townhouse years, my mom and Debi joined together in a commitment ceremony, long before gay marriage was legal. They are still together, and now legally married, today.
For my wife Stephie and my kids, there has never been a time when Debi wasn’t part of our family. As far as they are concerned, my mom and Debi have always been together. And to them, there’s no distinction about roles or titles. Debi isn’t “my mom’s partner”, she’s simply Grandma Debi, the other half of Grandma Terry. My kids don’t analyze it or see it as unusual; it’s just their reality. They have two grandmothers who love them deeply, and that’s all that matters.
Peanut Butter & Gum
There were some normal teenage nights as well.
One night I was hanging out with friends Danny, Laurie, and Sandy. Danny and Laurie were kind of dating, and I had a massive crush on Sandy. She was awesome. We were all piled in the front of Danny’s truck (he was the only one old enough to drive) and goofing off.
We were joking around and having a good time when Danny spit his gum out and threw it at me. Bam! It landed right in my hair. So, there I am, sitting next to the girl I liked, with a huge wad of gum stuck in my hair. Embarrassing, right? Wait, it gets better.
Laurie, being the sweetest person in the world, offered to take us to her house where she could help get it out. Turns out she knew this trick where you put peanut butter in your hair and the gum just slides right out.
Except it didn’t. At least not gracefully. Next thing I know, I’m standing in Laurie’s kitchen with her rubbing peanut butter into my hair while Sandy and Danny laugh. Eventually the gum came out, but now I had peanut butter residue stuck in my hair. Needless to say, I was humiliated and just wanted to get home.
So yeah, some things in my life were just normal coming-of-age adventures.
Cracks Forming
While life at home was good, my struggles outside the townhouse didn’t stop. If anything, they grew. The same world my mom had warned me about, filled with judgments, assumptions, and fear, was waiting every time I stepped out the door.
As I entered high school, I carried some friends from the past and made new ones. They were all wonderful friends, but I never fully opened up about who I was or where I came from. It wasn’t them, it was me. Fear of rejection sat on my shoulders like a weight, keeping me guarded, even though they accepted me as I was.
They all met my mom. They could see she wasn’t married and carried a certain masculinity, but it was never talked about. And like most teenagers, I just wanted to fit in. So I also tried to blend in with kids I knew wouldn’t have been accepting. I can still remember hanging out with guys I thought were friends. They’d crack a “gay joke,” and everyone would laugh. I did too. Or at least pretended to. But every laugh felt like a stone in my stomach.
It wasn’t about my mom directly. They didn’t really know. But it was about people like her, like Sue, like the women in parking lots, and the women at Club Mitchell. And instead of speaking up, I stayed quiet, terrified that one word from me would flip the spotlight and turn their laughter on us. That was the weight I carried: laughing along to jokes about the very people who made me feel most at home. I’m certainly not proud of my weakness. In fact, it still haunts me to this day. Every time I laughed, it felt like I was betraying my mom, even if she never knew.
At home, the minute I walked through that townhouse door, the armor could come off. I was safe, loved, and trusted. Outside, I carried fear, shame, and the desperate need to belong. That search for identity was about to take me in directions I wasn’t ready for. I discovered wrestling, and my love for music only grew. Two lifelines that kept me steady when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
Looking back now, the townhouse years were a mix of light and shadow. Inside, I had safety, laughter, and love. Outside, the world pressed in with judgments and expectations. Maybe that’s why those years stand out so sharply in my memory. They were the last time life still felt simple, even as it was becoming more complicated.
I’ve been waiting for grandma Debi’s entrance❤️