But secrets fester. At 17, Bobby’s inner turmoil boiled over. He overdosed on pills—a silent cry for help. He survived. In the hospital, Mary wept over him. But when a therapist suggested Bobby might be gay, Mary’s face turned to stone. “No,” she said. “He’s sick. We’ll cure him with God’s help.” Mary embarked on a crusade to “fix” Bobby. She gave him books on how to “leave homosexuality.” She forced him to attend conversion therapy sessions where counselors used shame and Bible verses. She monitored his friends, his music, his every move.
She planned a traditional funeral. But the pastor refused to call Bobby by name. “We cannot glorify his sin,” the pastor said. “He died in a state of unrepentance. We will pray for his soul, but we cannot say he is with God.”
Bobby tried. God, how he tried. He went on a date with a nice Christian girl. He held her hand, but his heart felt nothing. At night, he sobbed into his pillow, begging God to make him “normal.” Prayers For Bobby Online Subtitrat Romana
He moved to Portland, then to Seattle. He lived in a cramped apartment, worked odd jobs, and tried to build a life. He went to a gay bar for the first time—terrified, then liberated. He danced. He laughed. He met other young men like him. For a few months, he tasted freedom.
One night, she stood up to speak. Her voice trembled. “My name is Mary Griffith. I’m here because my son Bobby was gay. And I told him that God hated him. I gave him a book that called homosexuality a sickness. I took him to therapists who tried to electrocute the gay out of him. And then he jumped off a bridge because he believed he was unlovable.” But secrets fester
She started attending PFLAG meetings (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays). She listened to young men and women who had been thrown out of their homes, beaten by their fathers, cursed by their mothers. She saw Bobby in every face.
She found his journal under the mattress. She read page after page of his agony: “I prayed every night. I asked God to make me straight. He never answered. Maybe He doesn’t exist. Or maybe He loves me as I am—and it’s my mother who doesn’t.” He survived
Bobby, the second eldest, was different. At 15, he was sensitive, artistic, and gentle. He didn’t like sports; he preferred poetry and reading. Mary dismissed it as a phase. But Bobby knew. Deep inside, he felt an attraction to boys that he couldn’t pray away.
“Before you echo ‘Amen’ in your home or place of worship, think and remember: a child is listening.”
“I killed my son,” Mary whispered. “Not with my hands. With my words. With my Bible. With my fear.” Mary could not bring Bobby back. But she could speak so that no other mother would make her mistake. She began writing. She wrote a letter that would later become the heart of the book and film: