Whenever you ask about my childhood, I’m never sure if you mean when I was a boy or a girl. For the first five years of my life, you raised me as if I was a girl, putting me in dresses and makeup, only showing me rom com movies, brushing my hair. But you never talk about those years anymore, and part of me thinks you’ve forgotten. But part of me thinks you’re ashamed of me from that time, that you’re ashamed of yourself for doing that to me.
But you’re still my mother, and I still love you. And it happened, it’s a part of my life, and I love the fact that it’s part of me, because I got to spend it with you.
So please, talk to me.
He looked up from his letter, up into her eyes, searching. He saw guilt, and shame there.
“Was I right?” he asked. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“I never should’ve done that to you,” she said. “I wanted a girl so desperately, that I was willing to put your self-worth at stake to get one. I don’t think you remember how brutal the kids were at that age. The kids would make such fun of you that you would come into my arms and embrace you like a daughter, instead of putting an end to it right there.
“Besides, that child wasn’t really you. I was lying to myself back then. And seeing the man you’ve become makes me so proud of you. You’ve really grown into your true self.”
“I know I’m not that child. All I remember from those days is our relationship. I cherish those memories. I want to be able to share them with you sometimes. Please, mom.”
She sighed. “Alright, Josh.”