A mother shares a secret with her daughter.

Saturday Afternoon In The Kitchen

By J. L. Wendelin

Recently I found a box of my mother’s pictures and sat at the kitchen table looking through them. Little did I know that my trip down memory lane would lead to a conversation with my daughter about a subject I’d long avoided. Kelley, at 15, was old enough now to understand — probably well past; the subject needed to be broached. I’m a wimp and always hate the hard parental subjects such as sex, drugs, drinking, smoking — and the occasional bad grade. However, we have a good relationship, better that most I think, and I’ve always answered her questions about anything she’s asked. She’d never asked about this before; I never volunteered. She would today.

“Hey, Mom. Whacha doin’?”

“Looking at some of Grandma’s pictures.” In that instant I felt a brief wave of panic; I knew this would be it.

“Cool. Can I see?”

“Sure,” I said with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “Grab a chair.”

We leafed though the first album; mostly pictures of my older sister and brother and me as toddlers. One the first page of the second album was a picture of me, on my eighth birthday, in a cowboy hat.

“Who’s that?”

“Me. My birthday.”

“That’s so cute,” she said. “That hat.” She picked up the book to look more closely. I held my breath. Her forehead wrinkled. “Why does it say ‘Happy Birthday Bill?” She looked up, “Did they make a mistake with the cake?” This asked with a grin.

I let out my breath. “Honey, you need to know something.” Her grin disappeared at the seriousness of my tone. I stalled. “You know that I can’t have children?”

“Yeah. That’s why you and Dad adopted me.”

“Okay. You know your friend Sarah?” Sarah had recently moved to town. She and Kelley were becoming close friends. Kelley had told me about her a couple of weeks ago.

“Yeah?” That threw her for a loop; she was completely baffled.

“The thing is, is…I can’t get pregnant because I’m like Sarah. I was born a boy.” There, I’d said it.

She looked at me for several seconds while the gears turned and she tried to get her thoughts around this. Finally, very slowly, she said, “Holy shit.”

I didn’t bother to scold her for that. Another few moments passed.

“But… Wait a minute. How come you never told me this before?” — a hint of, almost, anger there.

“Well,” I started, paused to collect my thoughts; I’ve never been very good at speaking under pressure. “It’s hard. I didn’t want to tell you when you were younger because…because there’s still enough discrimination out there, at least in this town, that I didn’t want it to get out. I didn’t want you hurt because of it, and you might have been. I was afraid, for you, for me, for Dad.” I was on the verge of tears but trying hard to hold them off. “It’s better now. People are more accepting. But it’s still not easy; look at all the…the problems that Sarah has had. I’m still not sure they would accept me at work.”

“But that’s discrimination. That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

With a snort, I said, “Not in this state, honey. Not for people like me.”

“Oh.”

“You told me how hard it’s been for Sarah. I did this twenty years ago. It was harder then. I transitioned and left behind Bill for good.”

“Oh, Mom.” She came over to me and hugged me. “Will you tell me about it?”

So I did.

We spent most of the afternoon talking. I told her about growing up confused, finally figuring out who I was, transitioning, the whole story. She asked questions about what it was like, if friends helped, things like that. I think she was, to some extent, thinking about Sarah as much trying to learn about me. We had a couple good cries and came away closer that we’ve ever been.

As we finished some tea we’d made towards the end, she asked, “Can I tell Sarah?”

I’d expected that. Had some reservations but said, “Okay.” She hugged me again. If nothing else, I’d gotten more hugs this afternoon than in the last couple years. I wondered if I had made a mistake giving her permission when, a few minutes later, I heard her on her phone say, “Sarah? You’re not going to believe this…” in a classic teen way. Oh well, the cat’s out of the bag now. If it can help Sarah get through… Maybe I’m too paranoid. Maybe things have changed enough. Maybe…

A short while later, Tom returned from his golf game. As he came in the door from the garage I asked, or started to, “How was your ga–?” Kelley came bustling through the kitchen. “Hi Dad,” to him, “I’m goin’ to Sarah’s,” to me. She then gave me another hug. “Love you Mom.” And she was gone.

“What was that all about?” he asked as he watched her leave.

He turned and saw the tears returning to my eyes.

“Honey?”

 © 2007 JLW