Waking up in the morning, I often remember the tail end of a dream. The last words in the surreal script never seem to make much sense, and the context is quickly forgotten even before I open my eyes. So when I woke up hearing myself say, “I am worried about my daughter,” and thinking, “YOU don’t have a daughter,” I thought nothing of it. I had two grown sons, one married with my beloved grandchildren, and the other a single pilot who loved to hike and enjoy good food. Life was good.
Off I went with my husband to visit with my son, his wife and the grandkids, perhaps to take them to the playground and get some ice cream.
My son, Jess, was making himself a snack as we arrived. As he puttered around the kitchen, I noticed a small white bandage on his throat.
“What happened to your neck?” I asked.
“Oh, I just cut myself shaving,” he said as he toasted his English muffin.
“Oh, okay,” I said.
The day was sunny and cool, and the children had a great time meeting new playground friends after the long Covid confinement and just being kids. Knowing I had a freezer full of a wide variety of ice cream treats, we all ended up back at the apartment my husband and I had rented so that we could stay overnight near the family and be there when we were needed a few days a week.
After giving the kids the ice cream, I wandered into the bathroom to see if I needed to buy more soap. I remembered that I had dropped the top of a shampoo bottle on the floor the last time I was there and didn’t bother to pick it up, hoping my back might feel better the next time I came out. But when I looked for it, it was gone. I looked under the cabinets and suddenly realized it was on the top of the shampoo bottle. I stood for a moment feeling very strange and wondering who could have been in the apartment when I was away. I didn’t say anything to my husband because I was convinced he thought I was becoming forgetful, and I was sure I was not. I pushed it to the back of my mind.
A few weeks later, my son called me one evening to share some news. I had already heard that his wife and kids had surprised him with a cat and thought he was going to provide more details about that. But after he asked me to sit down, my phone went dead. I quickly got the other phone and called him back. He asked me if I had heard what he had told me, and I said that I hadn’t.
“Oh, I thought you heard me and hung up,” he said.
“Why would I hang up on you?”
“Well, okay, I wanted to tell you that I am transgender.” He paused. “I am a transgender woman.”
I can’t remember my exact words, but they were probably, really okay or something like that. He, or should I say she, told me that she had been on hormones for two and a half years and that her wife knew about it for longer than that and had accepted it. They would be telling the children soon. Jess made it easy for me by telling me she would be going by the name Jessica and we could continue to call her Jess.
“Well, okay, I wanted to tell you that I am transgender.” He paused. “I am a transgender woman.”
I didn’t feel shocked or concerned, and perhaps I even surprised myself by not only saying I was fine with it but reiterating what I have always said that if either of my children gave me such news, I would be fine with it. I wondered why Jess had felt any fear that I would feel anything other than unconditional love and support. My husband responded in the same way, and our other son accepted it immediately, as did almost all family and friends. Jess even told us that she was getting support at work, not only from the Human Resources person in charge of diversity but also from her coworkers.
Jess also told me that the day I saw the bandage on her neck was when she went into the city to have surgery to reduce the size of her Adam’s apple. After the procedure, she stayed at our apartment to recover so the children wouldn’t know what had happened, which explained the shampoo top.
When she explained to her children, who would continue to call her Daddy, they understood and offered their love. Apparently, for the young among us, being born in a man’s body but with a woman’s heart is not that hard to process. Sadly, few are too stubborn to try and won’t be joining us for holiday festivities this year.
And yes, sometimes I am worried about my daughter. Sometimes.
By Greta Sharkey
Greta Sharkey is a writer, poet, educator, and artist. Her writing has appeared in several journals and in the anthology Songs of Seasoned Women, edited by Patti Tana. Her photographs and paintings have been exhibited at various libraries in Suffolk County, NY, as well as art shows at Nassau Community College, Florida International University, Downtown LA Artwork, Fire Island National Seashore, and Sagtikos Manor on Long Island. She is a former trustee of the Babylon Citizens Council on the Arts and a current member and participant in the BACCA rotating art exhibits. She lives on Long Island with her husband. You can email Greta at: lambersoncorona[at]gmail.com
45 Magazine Poetry Journal publishes primarily poetry now, but if you have an essay you’d like to publish, send your query here.
Feature Photo by Slaytina.
Trying to tell a whole-ass story based on writing prompts. Specifically, a podcast about editing writing-prompt responses and patching them together to build one incredible story about bad choices. Really bad choices.
45 Magazine Poetry Journal 