“Keep true to the dreams of thy youth”—ah, well, who wouldn’t like the sound of that? But sometimes—for example, when you’re born a boy and you want to be a girl—that’s a tall order.

“Well, I like it—even if Moby Dick wrote it,” my mother suddenly said. “And that’s what my snowshoer is doing, Adam—she would have been a pretty girl. She’s keeping true to the dreams of her youth.” Little Ray took a deep breath before going on. “And that’s what I was doing, sweetie—when I had you,” my mom told me.

“When you what?” I said.

“When I wanted a baby—all mine, my one and only, no strings attached. I was keeping true to the dreams of my youth when I had you, sweetie,” my mother told me.

“Who was he?” I asked her.

“He was just some kid, sweetie—he was younger than you; he wasn’t shaving. He was just a boy who couldn’t take his eyes off me. You know boys like that, don’t you?” my mom asked me. “He was small,” she whispered, kissing me. “He would have been a pretty girl. What he meant to me, Adam, was that you would be all mine. That’s what ‘no strings attached’ means, sweetie,” my mother said.

I was no longer writing in those clunky notebooks with the popping rings—they reminded me of meeting Rose. Mr. Barlow had found better notebooks for me in Harvard Square. They had hardcover bindings—like real books, but with blank pages—and the ones I liked best were the size of paperback novels. The pages were unlined.

This happened after my conversation with my mom in my attic bedroom, where she told me my father would have been a pretty girl. I’d been writing in one of my notebooks at the kitchen table of the Amen Hall apartment I shared with the snowshoer. I don’t remember why I got up from the table—probably to get a glass of water, or to make myself a cup of tea. I do remember leaving the pages of my writing notebook open.

In the 1960s, I never saw those notebooks that had a hymnal ribbon. I love those notebooks—you never lose your place. At Mr. Barlow’s kitchen table, I used the salt and pepper shakers to hold my notebook open. The little English teacher wasn’t snooping; he just happened to see what I’d been writing.

It isn’t surprising that I’d written down the two most indelible things my mother had said in her most recent, and most candid, conversation with me. The first was about Elliot Barlow as a woman; the second was about my very young father.