When you love someone who’s different, you worry about them more—you’re always looking out for them. In my childhood, I was aware of my grandmother’s efforts to protect my mother. I was conscious of trying to protect her, too. When I was a student at Exeter, I looked out for the little English teacher. We usually went to wrestling practice together. I was always checking him over. Was he wearing the right clothes? Were there any telltale traces of my mom’s makeup in the area of Elliot’s eyes or lips?

That night when the night groomer got into bed with me, when I knew I wasn’t dreaming her—Molly was just wondering what was on my mind—I almost told her about the snowshoer’s cross-dressing. I was disappointed when the snowcat operator fell asleep. I’d wanted her to hug me, or give me a good-night kiss. Instead, I was left alone with my hard-on and my desire to touch her. Of course I didn’t touch her, and soon I was asleep.

When I woke up with her arms around me, and I felt her breath on the back of my neck, I was dreaming I was with Molly. Then her hips snuggled closer to me. Even in the dimness of the predawn light, I knew the body next to mine was too small to be the trail groomer’s. “Is this my Adam?” my mom whispered in my ear. “I have just my one and only—it sure feels like him.”

“It sure feels like you, too,” I told her.

“Of course it’s me, sweetie,” my mother said, clinging to me. “It’s what we do.” But for how much longer would we keep doing it? I wondered.

In the dim light, and with my back turned to her, I felt safe to speak. I knew she couldn’t see my frightened eyes. I thought I could keep the fear out of my voice. “Do you know that Elliot wears your clothes?” I asked her.

“Do I know?” my mom cried, hugging me harder. “Oh, sweetie—of course I know! I’m always dressing him in my clothes—Elliot loves my clothes!” she cried. “It’s what we do,” Little Ray repeated.

“But is it safe—is the snowshoer safe?” I asked her.

“Oh, sweetie—don’t be afraid,” my mother said. The dawn was breaking as she turned me to her, holding my face in her hands. She could see my eyes. “Adam, we can’t make being safe the guiding principle of our lives. We have to be who we are—we can only do what we do, sweetie.”

“But if we love people, we want them to be safe. Isn’t that the foremost thing?” I asked her.

“The foremost thing we want for the people we love isn’t necessarily their foremost thing—is it, sweetie?” my mom asked me.