I knock on the door and hear feet shuffling around the door. The light in the peephole disappears, then silence. They haven’t seen me presenting as a guy. I wonder what they’ll think of my jeans, hoodie, and leather jacket to go with my short hair.

“I know you’re there,” I say loudly.

The lock clicks and the door opens. I’m so nervous, I might faint. Mom is standing there, and Randy is behind her. They are less than welcoming.

“Come in,” Mom says. Randy keeps his distance, looking at me, saying nothing.

“I’m sorry to show up without letting you know, but I have some things I need to say.”

“A call would have been nice,” Randy says.

“Do you need anything?” Mom asks, always a caretaker.

“Water and the bathroom? I’ll meet you in the dining room?”

“Sure thing, Audrey,” Mom says, making my skin crawl at my deadname.

Once in the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. This house hasn’t changed one bit, and nearly every bit about me has changed. I splash water on my face and think about who I need to be for this scene. Should I be Tough Guy? Angry Guy? Any role but their daughter.

A bowl of stew and a glass of water wait for me in my usual place at the dining room table. Mom’s across from me with an open Bible in front of her, bright highlighted passages and scribbles in the margins. She studies that thing like there’s a quiz to get into heaven. Randy sits at the head of the table with his beer can.

I finish off the water in one long drink. When Mom goes to refill my cup, I start eating the stew. My hunger supersedes my anger or fear. Randy watches me but says nothing. The stew warms my stomach and reminds me of an average night in this house. The three of us at the table, eating, talking, and occasionally laughing. They loved to hear me talk about theater. I listened politely as they talked about church. I loved when my parents loved me. I want them to love me again.

Mom returns with my water and sits down. “Thanks,” I say, then wipe my mouth with my hoodie sleeve. The bowl is nearly empty. They study me—not used to my new look. I can see the wheels spinning in their heads. I clear my throat. “Why did you leave New York without saying goodbye?”

“I was so mad at you,” Mom says. “And your aunt.”

“For telling you the truth?” I ask.

“What truth? You are both misguided. This is serious. We have spent hours with Pastor Tim talking about what to do.”

My anger rises. I try to stay cool. “What does Pastor Tim say about me being transgender?”

Mom looks at Randy, who seems distant. “He thinks it’s a lie,” she says.

“A lie?” I repeat.