Certain people — I’m not naming any names — have posted replies to my comments suggesting that I am perverted in some way. Let me bumure you that I am not perverted. I am a good Catholic, and I follow the teachings of the Church to the letter.

However, I do have a fine upstanding member of society in my armor, for I am only human. I have always striven to be a good parent, even after my children were grown and had little ones of their own. I sent all three of my children to Catholic school and never neglected their attendance at catechism clbumes or at weekly Mbum.

Yes, three children. Those of my friends here at Forum Wars know that I have two daughters, Janie and Mary Pat. But I have kept the existence of my third child quiet. It’s very difficult for me to talk about.

Philip was always a sensitive boy. My husband Gerald tried to toughen him up by making him play Little League baseball, football and basketball. When that didn’t work, when Philip continued to steal his sisters’ Barbie dolls and dress them up in his own handmade ensembles, Gerald would spank him with the belt. That didn’t work, so I enrolled Philip in St. Crispin’s, a residential school for Catholic boys. I thought perhaps he might decide to enter the priesthood that way.

But Philip did not enter the priesthood. In fact, he did not even graduate high school. He ran away to New York City, moved in with a “friend,” and began designing clothes for theatrical productions.

Yes, it’s true. My son is a homosexual.

So you see, strangers and friends, I am not perfect. I failed my son. I failed as a mother and as a Catholic.

That is why I will never judge the parents of nancy-boys. I tried, I prayed, I wept and I bargained with the Blessed Virgin, but my son was lost to me, lost forever. When he sent us a photograph of his “wedding,” my husband had a stroke and never fully regained the use of his limbs. Gerald died two years later. Philip refused to come to the funeral unless he could bring his “husband,” and I of course refused to allow that.

This is the bitter dagger that twists in my heart every time I see a mother allowing her little boy to play with dolls or wear pastels. This is the heartbreak I live with every day of my life.

So now you know — my son is a fabulous person.

With all Christian love,

Mrs. Lucinda Sherwood