When I came out as queer, my religious family didn't accept me. My partner's family took me in.

• My Christian family didn't accept me when I came out.
• My partner's family welcomed me with an ease I hadn't known was possible.

"I'm gay, and I'm dating the person I want to marry. I'm telling you because I love you and I want you to know me," I told my parents around the dining-room table. Cards for our impending game were splayed out in front of us.

I never thought I'd come out to my Southern Baptist parents, but when I fell in love with Quinn at 26, I couldn't keep my sexuality a secret anymore. Unfortunately, my family didn't accept me.

My parents' response was confirmation of what I'd long expected

"We love you, but we'll never support this choice," my mom declared before leaving the table, face streaked with tears. Disgusted, my dad tossed his cards for the game we would never play on the table and followed her out.

I knew better than to want their approval. My coming out was a transactional moment — an exchange of information so they could finally know the truth. But part of me still hoped they'd choose me over their god.

After I left their house, my mom and I continued to process the situation via painful phone calls. My dad refused to speak with me, and I didn't hear from him again for nine months. I watched on Instagram and lurked in the family group chat as they gathered for birthdays and Christmas without me. My regular spot on the couch was taken over, and my empty chair at the table was made invisible.

I thought that was how it had to be when it came to family

Queer people have long created chosen families, especially when their own families turn them away. But when I met Quinn's, I learned family could be accepting and loving.

I heard the stories: Quinn's PopPop told them as a child that he supported gay marriage, Quinn's grandma, Nanny, wasn't afraid to use Quinn's chosen name, Quinn's mom took care of them after their top surgery, and Quinn's aunt and uncle crossed out other pronouns on birthday cards and added a handwritten "them."

"I hate how religion divides people," Quinn's mom, Stacy, said when I met her over Thai food in South Philly. "It should bring people together, not make people more hateful."

My eyes welled up with tears. Stacy didn't know about the open wound I was nursing, but when I told her about Christianity and my family, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

"I am so sorry," she said. "They're missing out on an incredible person."

Quinn's family welcomed me with an ease I hadn't known was possible

As I slowly started to be allowed back to my family's events, Quinn and I made careful plans: How would we respond to homophobic comments? How much would we touch in front of them? How would we de-stress afterward?

When we saw Quinn's family, we didn't have to make plans. We cuddled up on Nanny and PopPop's couch, and sometimes when we emerged from a private moment, we'd catch their faces beaming at us. Stacy often wrapped us in huge hugs and told us how happy she was to see us so in love.

6 months after I met this loving family, Quinn's grandma had her first fall

Nanny's dementia had her memory rapidly failing, and the fall landed her in hospice. It was a wake-up call, and we started going to Baltimore almost every weekend to visit.

On our weekends, we danced to Frank Sinatra, ate ice cream from coffee mugs, and talked about everything from family history to restorative justice. When PopPop suddenly went to the hospital, we slept by Nanny's side. She clutched Quinn's hand all night to feel safe.

When she died a year and a half later, we spent the week with our family.

"I see Nanny and me in you," PopPop told us as we crouched around his chair, hugging him goodbye before heading back to Philly. "And I think it's wonderful."

We all revered Nanny and PopPop's love: Together for 71 years and still in love until the very end. When Nanny's dementia got worse, she often woke him up in the middle of the night to ask whether he loved her. Eternally patient, he always said yes.

"That means so much," Quinn said, squeezing him tight. "We want to build a love like yours."

Quinn's family can't replace mine, but I've found another family in them

My parents couldn't give me what I wanted. They didn't celebrate my relationship with Quinn. They didn't show me that my queerness didn't make me unlovable. But Quinn's family did.

Last month, Stacy offered us Nanny's engagement ring for our joint proposal this fall. We slid the diamond onto my finger and looked at each other. "It's perfect," we agreed. Stacy squealed with joy and pulled us in for a group hug — a family ring, from one big family love to another.