“I know that I haven’t been the best parent that I could be to you, or to Michael.” She lets out a small sigh. “I always told myself that I was going to be a better parent than mine were. I promised myself that I’d never make my children feel unloved, that I’d listen to them, that I’d treat them with the respect that they deserved. I’d give them everything my parents never gave me.”

I’ve never actually heard Mom talk this much about her parents before. It wasn’t that it was a forbidden subject in our house; it’s just that they never came up, like she avoided the topic entirely. The most it felt like they ever came up was when Mom would throw out that they were coming for Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner.

And she never sounded happy about it.

“I just wish that you’d leveled with me,” I say to her. “When I came out to you, you didn’t seem to care at all. You just threw me into programs and surgery without doing your research, without bothering to learn about trans people.”

“I know.”

“And sending me off to Steerfield without just talking to me,” I say. “That’s all I wanted, was for you to talk to me, to pay attention to me.”

“I know, I know.” She looks at me. “I barely know my own son. And I never gave you or myself the chance to get to know you.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Mom doesn’t say anything, but I take her glance at me as permission to continue.

“Why don’t you ever stand up for me?” It’s the one thing I’ve wanted to ask her the most. She’s been so vocal about me being trans, posting about me on her social media when it benefited her, making big deals about donating to trans charities, but when it came to something as simple as standing up to her own family about my transition, about using my name and the correct pronouns, it was always silence. “I think above all else, that’s what hurts the most, that you never stand up to Nana and Grandpa when they say their transphobic shit.”

It doesn’t take long for the water to appear in her eyes. “I know that nothing I can say will excuse what I let them get away with,” she admits.

I stay silent.

“I was afraid of them then, and I still am today. And I know how silly that might sound …”

“Not really; I’ve met them.”

“I know that I shouldn’t be. They can’t control my life anymore, but parents have a way of hanging over you, even when you don’t want them to.” She pauses. “I’m sure you know that already.”

She breathes out slowly through her nose.