Nine years before my father died I was living with my parents in my small town on the NSW North Coast. I was slowly, secretly coming out as a 19 year old gay man, starting to contact other gay men in the area.

I had started actually going on dates as ‘friends’ to restaurants, RSL clubs and to my fairly new, older boyfriend’s house.

One Friday night, well before midnight, I was dropped off in front of my house by my date.

I tried to sneak in but my mother was waiting. I had not come out yet but she knew my date, had heard rumours about him and finally realised I was now not likely to ever date a nice girl from the bank or supermarket.

After many minutes of her screaming in worry through the house, including hysteria over safe sex as this was 1990, she yelled at my half-asleep father to talk to me about the drama- to join her in being shocked at the terrible news that I was definitely gay.

Dad lifted his tired head off the pillow. From the half darkness his gentle voice just asked: “Do you love him?”

That brief chat sticks with me as one of the clearest moments of unconditional love I have ever felt.

Even still.