In an effort to change it up a little this week, I offer a piece of narrative nonfiction, rather than my usual issue-based commentary. I hope you all enjoy.

My mother brags about me at family functions. After a few drinks, she tells the cousins how I love living in Virginia’s Horse Country (although I live in a crime ridden apartment complex in Maryland), how I’m succeeding in my studies at American University (close, but it’s Johns Hopkins), and how I live in a spacious apartment with my friend Lauren (whom I refer to as my partner). I would correct her but I no longer attend family functions, having sworn them off shortly after realizing that my family would always retain their own image of me, regardless of who I became. Families, I had decided, were best relegated to bi-annual holiday visits.  However, I was now several years older, living 700 miles away from home and about to skip one of my classes at the University whose name my mother doesn’t remember, take a day off from my moribund job and attend a wedding, with my partner, back in our shared hometown. A family wedding. Lauren’s family.

Lauren’s stepbrother, PJ, was marrying his long-time girlfriend, Amy. I enthusiastically agreed to accompany Lauren to PJ’s wedding because it was clear how important it was to her. “Of course I want to come,” I beamed, “it’s your stepbrother!” I had always been afraid this would happen. A wedding, a retirement party, or an eighth grade graduation would pop up on the calendar and I would have to meet her entire family.  I was unsure of who I was, but I was ready to be whoever she needed me to be.  I borrowed a black dress that made even my boyish style appear feminine, and laid down my credit card for the first heels I had purchased since senior prom. No collared shirt and converse sneakers at this wedding; my mission was to blend in.

I sat alongside Lauren on the groom’s side of the small suburban church. For me, our VIP third row seats were a little too close to the action. I imagined everyone staring, wondering who I was, whispering about my chunky, plastic-framed glasses.  I would have preferred to hide out in the back. Lauren’s mother, Pam, played the part of The Mother of the Groom. As stepmom, she was the closest thing to a parent that PJ had. Lauren stopped in awe when she saw her mother at the ceremony, “Mom!” she gasped, “You look beautiful!” The bride, Amy, had her Pamela Anderson style hair piled on top of her head and cascading down the open back of her ornately decorated wedding dress. She never stopped smiling. I was afraid to meet her for the first time at her wedding; I wanted the approval of Lauren’s family in a way that I had given up on my own. Lauren’s eyes welled while PJ. and Amy exchanged vows and I imagined her at 12 years old, meeting her new brothers and sister. They had been family for more than 10 years.

Lauren’s family is as blended as a strawberry-banana protein shake. She and her younger sister grew up with their divorced parents living in different states.  It was just the two girls and their mom, until their mother got remarried. Then came a new dad and three stepsiblings. The family of seven shared a home for four years, when her stepdad died of a heart attack, and her mom became a single mother of five. PJ was the first to get married. I had only heard the names of these people in casual conversation about holidays and now I would meet them all at once, at a wedding. As Lauren’s girlfriend. The girlfriend for whom she had moved across the country.

The ceremony was beautifully short. After PJ and Amy took their vows and all the women in the church shed a few conspicuous tears, I did my best to disappear in the crowd of milling cousins. I spent my time conversing with other second-rate guests such as a baby-daddy, an on-again-off-again girlfriend, a disapproving uncle and some girl who wore slacks. We were minding our own business, murmuring our collective surprise to be invited to this wedding, when I heard Lauren calling my name. I looked up to see her preparing for a photograph around the altar with the groom’s immediate family. She was beckoning for me, and I fiercely shook my head. There was no way I was going over there. Couldn’t she see I had claimed my place with the Misfit Guests? I couldn’t imagine why she wanted me in the wedding photograph with her family. I didn’t like being in my own family photographs, how was I supposed to feel like a part of hers?

Lauren continued gesturing unwaveringly toward me, a cross between hailing a cab and coaxing a frightened animal, and soon the group was impatiently waiting for me. I loped over like a newborn colt, awkward in my too-high heels, and squeezed myself next to Lauren.  The group shot was peppered with aunts, uncles and cousins whose relationships had lasted longer than my total years on the planet. For a person who usually dresses like she’s on her way to a softball game, the slinky black dress and silver breakneck heels I was wearing felt more like a costume than an outfit.

All went well for the first 35 seconds. My smile remained plastered on my face and my tummy sucked in, until the pretty blond photographer pointed her well-manicured nail at me. She slid her arm, in a Grease Lightning fashion, to the other side of the group. “You,” she Tyra Banks’d me. “You’re tall. Move over there.” The thought of being separated from Lauren in this photograph terrified me. I imagined that for the rest of their lives, PJ and Amy would point at the picture and wonder, “Who was that broad-shouldered imposter in our immediate family wedding photo?” “Wasn’t she the one who was fraternizing with your disapproving Uncle Hank and that girl who wore slacks?”

Lauren’s face crumpled at the idea of the photographer moving me away, believing that she misunderstood the nature of our relationship. Something was brewing up inside her. I felt her temperature rising where the skin of our arms touched. She fidgeted and looked from side to side, nervously. As I began to move to my new height-denoted spot, she grabbed my hand. Suddenly, she erupted. “She’s my…SIGNIFICANT OTHER!” Her voice echoed inside the tiny church, insisting I remain by her side.

I felt like the outburst had come in a silent room, like a giant spotlight had swung 180-degrees to land on our hands – caught in an illicit embrace. The truth was out. She had called attention to our relationship status: we were lesbians. Both of us. Together. Everyone laughed. I died a little inside. The photographer begrudgingly let me stay where I was, and snapped the photo. Although I felt so exposed by the big reveal, I respected and loved Lauren for saying something to the photographer, for speaking up, for refusing to be treated as anything less than a unit. For making everyone acknowledge that I belonged in their “immediate family” photograph.

After a few drinks and a few hours of perspective, I had forgotten about my awkward minutes in the limelight, though I was still uncertain about my appearance and role in Lauren’s family. At the reception, we talked, held hands and chatted like lovers, though I constantly felt the need to look up and see who might be pointing a shocked and accusatory finger in our direction. It’s hard to be “the gay couple” at a straight wedding. Weddings symbolize commitment, future, and family in a way that is uniquely hetero. There are always babies and grandparents and conservative cousins who force you out of the safe place you have created for yourself as an adult.

When the dinner plates had been cleared, Etta James’ classic love long, “At Last” opened the dance floor, and I stood and took Lauren’s hand. We danced alone for a moment less graceful than my memory has already painted it. I danced to say “thank you” to her for the moment at the church. Commitment is not always about marriage, moving in together, or raising cats together. I didn’t know if I was ready to demand that Lauren be by my side in a family photo. I didn’t even know if I was ready to take her as my date to a family wedding. I could never imagine being so brave and honest to my mother – showing up at one of those family parties and just saying it. Saying, “Lauren is my…SIGNIFICANT OTHER,” but Lauren helped me to make our commitment more open, saying, at her stepbrother’s wedding, we’re just like you. Commitment is smiling in family photos and slow dancing in the pointy shoes of the wicked witch. As far as commitment goes for same-sex couples at a heterosexual wedding, this was it. Look, everyone. We’re significant.