Mom reaches across and holds my hand. “Miss you more, sweetie.”

Randy takes a drink from his beer bottle. Like Mom, he dressed up in his Sunday finest. Mustard-yellow button-up shirt with his brown suit. “What an impressive school,” Randy says, foam from his beer hanging on his mustache. He wipes it away. “That theater must have had a thousand people.”

“Can you believe it?” I ask.

Mom smiles. “We knew we’d see you in big theaters.”

“You’ve got talent,” Randy says, beaming.

“I can tell you have improved. It’s clear,” Mom adds.

“Oh, definitely,” he says.

“We’re proud of you,” Mom says.

It’s raining compliments, and I let the words wash over me. Their admiring looks fill me with love that I’ve missed more than I realized. I rearrange my silverware, not knowing how to respond. “Thanks,” I say. “Means so much for you to see the school. For you to know that I’m doing okay.”

“Okay?” Aunt Lil questions. “Kid, you’re thriving.”

“But, Audrey, can you explain something?” Mom says, picking her purse up from the floor and digging through it. She pulls out the Playbill and hands it to me. “Look what they put your name as.” She points at my bio. “A. Greene?”

I had anticipated this question and made sure my bio was ambiguous and empty of pronouns. But there was no way to hide my name. I went with “A. Greene” but knew that would raise questions. “That was my mistake,” I say. “I thought the cast was putting an initial as their first name. Turns out, they didn’t.”

“It’s your name. Such an important detail,” Mom says.

“Make a call, honey,” Randy says. That’s his famous line. Whenever something was happening at my school or church, Randy suggested she call someone to complain.

“That’s not needed,” I say. “The show is over.”

While the waiter refills our water glasses, I scan the room for anyone from school. There’s an older couple. Some families. And a group of kids, but they don’t look familiar. I lucked out.

“I can’t believe you live in this city,” Mom says. “I tell everyone at church about it.”

“Oh yeah,” Randy says, biting into a pickle. Where did he get pickles? “Bragging all the time about her daughter in the big city.”

Each time my parents misgender or deadname me, my aunt shifts in her chair, uncomfortable. I look at her and smile—hoping she knows I’m fine.

“Any boyfriends?” Mom asks. A usual question for her.

“No time for anything like that,” I say.

“How about you, Lil? Got any boyfriends you want us to meet?”

“No time for anything like that,” she repeats.

Mom shakes her head. “Both of you, too focused on art and acting.” She smiles at Randy. He somehow has another pickle. “You need to make room in your heart for love, too.”