Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Six

So that’s where I am, Dear Diary, here at the end of May, at the end of Spring, when things bud and blossom—interesting that both words are used to describe breast development!

Judy joined us for dinner, and the four of us had a great time. Susan told them about the pool party, and they shared stories about their own teenage girlhoods, and we laughed a lot. I told them about Scotty, and they all went, “Ho-ho!” and so that cat’s out of the bag.

“I have an announcement,” I said at this point. “I think we all pretty much know that there’s no Alan left; I want to be … No, not ‘want to be’,” I shook my head. With more confidence, I said, “I am Alyssa from now on.”

I heard Susan mutter, “Pretty much always was …”

I had to hug her for that, and my announcement earned me a hug from everyone and a special kiss from Mom. Then it was time to get practical.

We discussed what to do about school, and it was really pretty simple. Judy, as my doctor, would write a letter to the principal and I would be excused from the remainder of the semester—a whole three weeks. She said she’d done it before, once at my school and twice at a school across town, and that principals were usually very understanding. I asked the reason for the excuses, wondering if they were like me. She said once, at another school, it was a girl becoming a boy.

Susan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing; we’d had the exact same thought—who’d want to do that? But I sobered up immediately; I know first-hand that if your body’s not right, nothing’s right. Judy said the other excuses were asthma and a hernia operation. The point is, she said, some people blow out of school early to get a head start on vacation, and schools don’t like that. It’s far easier to get your work finished early and get a good grade when there’s a medical excuse.

So, we’ll call for the soonest possible appointment with the principal first thing in the morning, Mom will hand him the letter, and if all goes well, that should do it. I may or may not have to be there, depending on what the principal says when we set up the appointment.

We debated whether I should go dressed in super-feminine clothes, in a pretty dress, makeup and jewelry, or go in boy clothes and look terribly out of place. Susan suggested—rightly, I think—that I just go dressed like a regular schoolgirl. The point for the excuse was not really about me, other than my safety from being killed by homophobes. The point that would carry the most weight with the administration was that the last weeks of school would be disrupted, while everybody else buzzed about my change. Judy said she was right, and she knew our principal; it should work out.

That takes care of school, at least this semester. Now, about the rest of my life …

Judy said she can enter me in a program at the hospital. The downside is that I’d be part of the research, so I’d have to be willing to be interviewed constantly, about the most personal and embarrassing details of my transition—because as far as she is concerned, I am officially ‘transitioning’ to female.

Yay!

Anyway, the upside of the program is that it’s a sort of fast-track for treatment if I’m approved (and she sees no reason why I wouldn’t be), leading all the way up to the surgery when I’m eighteen. I fit the criteria, and we’ll try to enroll me into the program this week, so I guess that’s our second stop once school is sorted out.

Judy also said that acceptance in the program greatly helps the documentation problem, something Mom and I hadn’t even thought of. Things like ID, birth certificate, insurance papers, and all the rest can be a nightmare if we try to do it by ourselves; Judy said that’s part of the routine for the hospital, so that’s a big load off our minds—a load that we didn’t even know we had!

The documentation issue also touched on school, for next year, I mean. There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to attend as a girl, but that would be a problem at my school, so I’ll have to go somewhere else. That bummed out Susan, but Judy said we probably wouldn’t have to move—nobody except Susan and Scotty knew where Alan lived—so we could still see each other.

We all figured it would work out better if I did my last year of middle school somewhere else, then entered the same high school I would have, anyway. We would have the legal name change, and enough students would have forgotten about Alan Cunningham by that time—not that anybody really knows me, anyway, besides Susan, Amanda, and Scotty. There’s also the possibility of going to another school, maybe a private one if we can afford it. I thought that would be best—except for the money, of course—because there’d be no chance of anybody knowing Alan, and I could see Susan and Amanda and maybe Natalie and I’d just be another girl from another school, hanging with them at the mall …

Susan reached over and squeezed my hand. “Soon, girlfriend. Soon!”

Then it was time to get Susan back home. Mom produced the freshly laundered skirt, sandals, bra (a new one to replace the loaner), and necklace that Susan had loaned me. Hugs all around, and then Judy volunteered to do the dishes while Mom and I took her home.

On the way to the McMillans, I told Susan again how much I valued her as a friend, and how eternally grateful I am to her. Mom said she was, too, and said we could never repay our debt to her. Susan said she’d already been repaid, because now she had a great girlfriend. I got tears thinking about how lucky I am.

When we got home, I was tired, I was wired, I was scared, I was blissful. Starting tomorrow, my life will change. For the better, I am absolutely sure. And it will be painful, in a lot of ways—of that I am sure, as well.

But before I move forward—the only direction open to me—I had to settle something.

We got home and Mom and Judy did their loving hug and kiss and regarded me fondly. I smiled.

“Tea, anyone?” I asked lightly.

“Oh, honey, it’s too late, I think …” Mom said, but trailed off as she saw my face.

Judy picked up on it, too. “I’ll get it. Rose Hips?”

We all agreed; tea was made, we sat. We sipped. We set cups down.

I folded my hands and studied my fingers, the cute polish, and then looked at the two women.

“You did this to me, didn’t you?”

The looks on their faces were not guilt, not shame, but more like … more like I’d passed some sort of test.

Huh?

Judy turned to Mom. “Sweetheart … me or you?”

“I’ll start. I’ll get bogged down, and you’ll save me.”

“Of course,” Judy smiled.

Mom laced her fingers with Judy. “You always do.”

I’d already long ago appreciated that Judy saved Mom—saved us—so I sat quietly. Took a sip and waited.

Mom said, “Easiest to start with his death, isn’t it? You were so angry and so unhappy and you’d been so unhappy for so long—we both had, living with him—but it was different for you. I’m going to fall back on a cliché, but it’s true nonetheless. A mother can tell. And I’m going to speak in the third person. I certainly knew about Alan’s size, and Alan’s … delicacy, and Alan’s slim-to-none chances of anything changing. And it was tearing me up.”

She shook slightly; Judy put her other hand on their clasped hands and Mom quieted and went on.

“I met Judy and my life changed, improved, started …” She looked at Judy and smiled with such love. “And it seemed that even though I’d been living in a dark hell, I could be pulled up into the light. And, oh, Alyssa! Those sessions helped me so much!”

Mom’s face lit up at the memory and I had a sudden thought.

“Sessions … you mean you were seeing Judy as a patient? I mean, she was your doctor? Before you two …” I wiggled my finger between them.

“No,” Judy said solemnly, shaking her head. “When I met your mother, I …” She glanced at Mom, who happily squeezed Judy’s hands. Judy nodded. “I had always been one-hundred-percent heterosexual. Never had a gay thought, even with the pretend-kisses with a girl in middle school. I outgrew it and right into boys. I was a straight woman, attracted to men and always had been. I dated them and … had relations with them, and—”

“Sorry!” I giggled. I’d rolled my eyes automatically at how delicate she was trying to be.

Judy chuckled. “No; I understand. You’re old enough that …” She shrugged. “I dated several men, was serious about a few, had sex with them and enjoyed it immensely.”

She looked at me for a moment to see how I took it; it was fine to me and understandable. I gave her a small smile and a nod.

She went on. “I was even engaged. For nearly two years. An orthopedic surgeon in Chicago; he broke it off when he …”

I saw Mom squeeze her hand; she obviously knew this story and its pain for Judy.

Judy swallowed. “He was sleeping with one of his nurses. Had been for most of our engagement, and figured he’d continue after we were married. I confronted him and he … chose to fool around, so he said the engagement was off.”

She stopped there and I gave her the silence her memory seemed to need.

Mom said, “He was a fool but I’m damned glad for it. Otherwise, she might not have moved here and we might not have met.”

Judy leaned over and they kissed softly, and Judy whispered something in Mom’s ear and she nodded. Judy sat back and said, “I don’t hate men. I was mad at Steve but then I realized I was really mad at myself for not seeing it, the long lunches, the phone calls.” She shrugged. “I was a fool, too. But, yes, I moved here for a fresh start and …” She smiled at Mom. “A fresh start.”

“The point is, honey,” Mom said, “that Judy isn’t a man-hater.” She gave a little wicked smile to Judy. “Except for Steve, maybe!”

Judy nodded and said, “The only thing I can say is that when I met your mother … when we met, it was like we were two tuning forks vibrating in tune, identically. Resonating. It didn’t matter what the sex or gender was, between us, there was only us. But I am professional, and it would be unethical to treat your mother because of my personal feelings for her.”

“Judy referred me to two doctors, including a therapist. I went for months.”

I’d never had an inkling that Mom had been in therapy.

Mom waved her free hand. “Oh, I was in terrible shape, on the edge of malnutrition—stress can play havoc with your system—and there were some imbalances that had to be taken care of, but the main thing was when I realized that love is love, and I loved Judy. And somewhere in all that, learning to deal with gender roles and sex roles and suddenly being a lesbian after years as a straight woman, I—”

This time I raised a hand. “Mom? Judy? As far as I’m concerned—from everything I’ve seen and heard and felt from you two—I think that neither of you ‘discovered you were a lesbian’, or ‘suddenly became a lesbian’ or anything like that. I don’t think you’re lesbians.”

Judy and Mom looked at each other with a slight frown. Judy went for humor. “Well … I’m kinda pretty sure we are.”

Mom smiled and nodded. “It took a lot of talks between us, but we accept that we’re lesbians.”

I shook my head. “No, not like the usual. Neither of you is attracted to women. You’re attracted to each other. Outside of Mom, Judy, I think you’re probably not interested in sex with women. Outside of Judy, Mom, I think you’re probably not interested in sex with women, either. You’re probably not interested in sex with men, but not because they’re men, but because that would be betrayal of your true love—each other.”

They stared at me.

Mom said, “You’re a wonder! How’d you get to … how’d you get to be so smart?”

Judy said, “When she discovered herself. When she stopped hiding.”

I blushed slightly under their beaming gazes, covered with a sip of tea, and set it down.

“Yes, about that,” I began. “When I ‘discovered’ myself. That brings me to my first question. You did this to me, correct?”

I gestured to show my girlish body and clothing.

Mom was shaking her head, opening her mouth to speak, but Judy squeezed her hand and Mom stopped.

Judy said, “I will answer that, and fully, but you must let me tell it in my own way. Because, Alyssa, the answer, right now without any explanation, is no. And yes. And it’s also yes, and no.” She reached to take a sip, the edge of her lips twitching slightly. When she’d swallowed, she said, “So, may I tell you the answer?”

I couldn’t resist. “Yes. And no. And no and yes.”

Fortunately, they chuckled and it cleared the air. To my surprise, Mom disengaged herself from Judy and moved to the arm of the couch.

“Honey, I got the feeling it looked like we were ganging up on you. This is the medical part of things, Judy’s got the floor, so I’m a spectator.”

“Mom, I know you love Judy. You’re a couple! Geez, go ahead and sit with your sweetie!”

They looked at each other with such love but Mom said, “Nope. Gonna stay here. Judy has the floor.”

Judy took another sip of tea, set her cup down, and her demeanor shifted slightly. I realized it was her professional posture; I’d seen it enough in her office.

“When you first came to me, I had you undergo a complete physical. You, too—” She broke off and glanced at Mom and back to me. “I’m going to use Alan in the third person, too, and male pronouns where they’re needed.”

I nodded and she started again.

“Your mother’s doctor had already transmitted her records to me, and Alan also showed the near-malnutrition and similar deficiencies. That’s not unusual in the same family with the same living conditions. But there were complications with Alan; his immune system was sluggish, and there were disturbing imbalances in his endocrine system. That was never a cover story, but quantifiable medical truth, and it’s all in your records. I sent the tests out to two different labs and they came back with identical results. Then I sent the results to two doctors, an endocrinologist and a specialist in pituitary disorders; I also sent one to my old professor at Columbia. They all came back the same.”

“Judy discussed this with me before she contacted all these people,” Mom said. “She showed me the files before she sent them and our names were removed. So please don’t worry about your privacy; the files had you down as an anonymous patient. And then she showed me the … “

She glanced at Judy and back to me. “She showed me the results, too.”

“What was that look?” I asked, pointing back-and-forth between them.

Mom sighed. “First, I want to say that they did all come back with the same results, the same predictions, the same … future for you. For Alan.”

She let me think about that; I nodded and she went on.

“That look was because … well, Judy will tell you in medical terms, but as your mother, it was all just so … depressing.”

Judy gave her a look of sympathy and then resumed her clinical speech. “The doctors were unanimous in their diagnoses and prognoses. They agreed—without knowing about the others—that the standard procedure would be a major improvement in diet, rigorous exercise and weight training, a strict and severe regimen of vitamin and mineral supplements, and an aggressive, massive hormone therapy. Male hormone therapy.”

“Boost the testosterone, you mean,” I said.

She nodded. “Exactly. But even in … let’s say ‘normal’ here, meaning un-stressed, relatively placid individuals, alright? Even in normal patients, testosterone therapy has a whole bagful of nasty side effects. Acne, unusual bodily hair growth, an unpleasant skin aroma and others—and rage. We’ve all heard of ‘roid rage, from steroid abuse. An extremely unpleasant and potentially dangerous side effect. Not just a danger from getting into fights, but serious degradation on other bodily systems.”

“I’ve read something about that,” I nodded. “One of the science magazines, I think.”

Judy nodded again. “Quite well documented. So … the patient presented with symptoms indicating the necessity of massive testosterone increase—but the patient already exhibited rage.” Judy fixed me with a direct look. “You were twisted with hatred. Alan was, I mean. Seething, boiling, erupting all too often. In agony.”

Mom nodded slowly and solemnly agreeing. “I was too, sweetheart.”

Automatically, I wanted to defend myself. “No, I …” But they were right. I gave it up and nodded, too. “Yeah. I was pretty messed up.”

“And not through your fault, either,” Judy said, “which adds injustice to your anger and it just gets toxic. And then to think about adding more testosterone, already known to increase rage? Unthinkable.”

“So you … what? Gave me female hormones?”

Mom said, “I’ll take over for a moment, then Judy can get medical again. Honey, for years I’ve known there was somebody in Alan. For years. Quite frankly, I thought Alan was gay. I remember thinking ‘If only his father could be out of his life and he could discover himself without fear’. But I knew that inside the mask you presented to the world was somebody else. Judy?”

Judy said, “I’m licensed in hypnotherapy as part of the holistic training I’ve undergone. I’m not a practicing psychiatrist, though; I’m an M.D., but with extensive psychological training. So that first time … I noticed you slipping into sleep.” She chuckled. “At first I wondered, am I that boring?”

“No, no; it wasn’t that,” I said automatically, but what had it been? Wait … “So you didn’t hypnotize me?”

“No, I truly didn’t. I was trying to explain how we’d address your under-nutrition and I realized that you’d gone under, all by yourself.”

“I really just fell asleep? All on my own?”

“Yes, but there’s sleep and there’s sleep, and yours was closer to a trance state rather than just dozing off—there’s an odd calm that’s recognizable. I had not tried to induce a trance but you were very nearly there already, all by yourself. There’s clinical evidence that in some cases of anxiety, the subconscious mind wants to unburden itself; it wants to relieve the stress. I did not perform any hypnotic procedure …” She chuckled at the memory. “I never even had any reason to, at that point. And I certainly never told you that I was a hypnotherapist, and my certification isn’t on the wall of my office.”

“I certainly hadn’t told you,” Mom said. “I didn’t know she even did hypnotherapy until she called me.”

“Right; because you’d gone to a different doctor and therapist,” I nodded, putting the pieces together.

“That’s right; she did,” Judy nodded with me. “So there you were, suddenly in a trance sleep induced by yourself, not by me. I was flattered that you felt comfortable enough, safe enough, with me to relax,” she smiled. “You see, subconsciously, the part of your mind that wasn’t boiling with anger was trying to find a release, a safe place to vent. It happened to be in my office; if I hadn’t been able to recognize the nature of your sleep, you would have woken a bit refreshed just from your mind taking a respite, a mini-vacation of sorts, from your anger.”

“You were so angry, sweetheart,” Mom murmured, almost to herself. “All the time, just simmering.”

Judy said, “But since I am licensed, I immediately called your mother and explained the situation. She gave her approval for me to truly induce a trance state, so I put you under deeper, to at least give you some chance to ease your anger and guilt.”

“Guilt?” I asked.

“Guilt,” she nodded firmly. “The natural guilt of a child who knows he’s supposed to love his father, but can’t. It can be devastating, and when coupled with your anger, and sense of injustice … as I said, toxic. So if I could put you under, it would give you some respite, give your system—that was so tightly coiled with rage—a bit of ‘down time’, and I’d start giving you tools to let your subconscious ease the pressure.”

Mom said, “You do know she couldn’t make you do something you didn’t want to do, right? You know that about hypnosis?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said. “Never was sure if it was true.”

“It’s mostly true,” Judy said, “and I’ll explain the mostly part in your particular case.” Another sip and she was ready to go. “The first time you went under and I called your mother, we agreed to try relaxing and calming suggestions. That was all; just to give you that down time from anger.”

“It worked; I felt great,” I nodded. “Well, better, anyway.”

She nodded. “And then, during your second session, you relaxed even further than your first, and everything changed. Everything. Your physicality, how you held yourself in your chair. Your gestures. Your speech patterns. You didn’t have a name but you were …” She trailed off and frowned. “I’m going to change what I was going to say. I was going to say, you relaxed and you were Alyssa. But that’s not accurate, because the girl on the couch—and make no mistake about it; that was a girl on my couch!—was nowhere as fully-formed as you are now. So I’ve got a new name for that time. Back to what I was saying, everything changed. You were no longer Alan; you were proto-Alyssa. Unformed at that point and yet I discovered she’d always been there. I did some regression with you and no matter how far back we went, proto-Alyssa was still there.”

She stopped there, looking at me to see if I believed her or not. My face must have shown ‘or not’, so she gave proof.

“Do you remember the time you tried to ride the bike?”

I shuddered at the memory. My father had obtained a two-wheeled bike somewhere, grumping about ‘Time for him to learn to be a regular boy’ and picking me up and setting me on the seat. That should have clued him in—the damn bike was too big for me! But there was no girl involved …

Judy said, “Proto-Alyssa was frightened to death. Inside, she was shrieking, ‘Daddy, no!’”

I shook my head. “I never called him ‘Daddy’. He got really upset when I did when I was really little, so he always had to be ‘Dad’.”

“She’s right,” Mom said, looking guilty and angry. “He thought it was more manly.”

Judy’s look to me was direct. “There, on my couch, you—as a little girl on that bike—screamed, ‘Daddy, no!’ quite loudly, with tears and shaking. It took me a bit to calm you.”

The implications of Judy’s story sank in, because I knew I’d never told that story to her, and Mom had not been home that day—she was working while he was trying to get me to ride this huge bike and …

I gasped. “I just remembered! He had a drink in one hand!”

“Usually,” Mom said bitterly.

“No! I mean, I never remembered it before, but I can see it clear as day! I remember the smell, too! He spilled some, and licked his hand!”

Judy said, “I think it’s proto-Alyssa updating Alyssa. You may find more memories coming to you now, things you either suppressed or haven’t been willing to remember. More memories like that one surfaced under hypnosis in later sessions. All, without exception, were from a girl’s perspective. Not once were any of your memories from a male point of view.”

“But … what about when I tried to fight him?” I asked, and felt my hands starting to curl into fists, like a reflex at the memory. I relaxed them.

Judy noticed that but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she said, “Do you think only boys fight off attackers? It was plain from what you said that you were a daughter trying to defend her mother.”

Mom looked sheepish. “Sweetheart? I have a confession to make. Judy’s revelations were so shocking to me—and wait! You’re going to ask about doctor-patient confidentiality, but you’re a minor, so she had to tell me. And you couldn’t give consent for things you didn’t even know about; it was part of the hypnosis.”

Judy nodded. “It had all started to just let you release steam, so to speak. You could vent freely and without guilt, and the ability to do that is clinically proven to be beneficial.”

There was a moment of silence so I took a sip, as did Mom.

Judy sighed. “So back to hypnotherapy. Your mother attended several sessions, entering the room after I’d put you under. And it’s late and we all have a big day tomorrow and I think all the preliminaries are done so here it is in a nutshell: We discovered Alyssa. We did not create Alyssa. We never suggested you become a girl. The only thing we did was to allow you to allow yourself to think and act without guilt and fear. To give you respite from that coiled unhappiness. Basically, I gave you permission to give yourself permission to relax. To accept that your father was truly gone and had no power in your life. You had permission to be yourself. And that began the … blossoming, you could say, of Alyssa.” She quickly held up a hand. “Ah, you say, but what about the physical blossoming? Okay, yeah, I did do that, but not the way you think.”

“Testosterone blockers,” I murmured.

Judy smiled and nodded.

I went on. “From what I’ve read, they’d halt the testosterone flooding my system and … what’s that word … stoking my rage. Because I was pretty angry.” I smiled sheepishly at Mom.

“We both were,” Mom said gently.

“Gonna git all medical on ya, here,” Judy chuckled. She took a sip of tea and set the cup down before going on in her professional voice. “Biologically, emotions primarily begin in the amygdale, in your brain. They analyze threats and largely tell humans to run or to fight.”

“Fight-or-flight; I’ve read about that, too,” I nodded.

“Right. Your brain releases neurotransmitters called catecholamines that speed up your heart, your breathing, and narrow your focus to the immediate threat in front of you. More neurotransmitters get dumped into your system—I mean, nearly instantly—like adrenaline and noradrenaline and others. That’s a lot of chemicals flooding the brain and nervous system. Also, the adrenaline doesn’t leave your system even after your prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain that handles judgment—tells your body to stand down. Your heart rate and respiration may slow, but the increased adrenaline levels may last for a day or more. And the adrenaline already in your system tends to lower your anger threshold.”

“So I was angry all the time,” I said.

“We both were,” Mom said again, nodding.

“Not in the same way, though,” Judy said with a raised finger. “See, the average person isn’t faced with fight-or-flight that often. You two were faced with it nearly every day. The critical difference is your age, because your body—any adolescent and teen’s body—is at a critical stage in development. In terms of anger.” She pursed her lips. “Your system was being adjusted to the constant adrenal surge. To accept rage as normal. You could become addicted, in a way, to rage. Constant rage that would cause violence.”

I could only stare. It all fit; her description of me was accurate, even before she knew me. My breathing would get fast, my fists would curl and the focus thing … that made all the sense in the world. It was why I just couldn’t get my father out of my mind, and the anger would trigger again and the cycle continued.

Judy was absolutely right about what my body was doing to itself, and about the future for Alan. I’d read about children in battered families and the terrible toll abuse took on them as they grew. And in my case, that daily cycle, year after year? Anger triggering more anger, and that rise in anger firing up even more anger … and yes; I might have become like my father—addicted to rage and violence.

I sighed. “I had to block the testosterone. I mean, you had to. And thank you for that. But the other shots …”

“Vitamins and minerals, to counter your malnutrition and to help metabolize some foods better. The B complex, niacin, folic acid, and so on. Pretty potent, too; much more than over-the-counter,” Judy nodded.

“I got them, too,” Mom said. “But from the doctor I was seeing, and I knew they were working, and I approved them for you. They also gave me a diet plan; you probably noticed we ate better.”

“I just thought it was better because he was gone,” I said. Then I frowned. “So you didn’t … or did you … give me female hormones?”

“Only the last month, on a trial basis,” Judy said. “Blind test. And you took to them quite happily.”

“Only the last … but my breasts …” I was stunned. “My skin, my … hips …” I was wide-eyed.

Mom nodded slowly. “All you, sweetheart.”

Judy said, “With the blockers halting your testosterone, the estrogen your system was already producing is what brought on your physical changes. Some of the mental and emotional ones, too.”

“Huh …” I frowned, musing. There was something not fitting but I couldn’t quite—ah!

“But if my testosterone was enough to cause rage, was that the endocrine imbalance?”

Judy shook her head. “No; there were several deficiencies in your hormonal system. Your eicosanoids were all wrong; they control growth and immunity, both of which were lower than normal.”

“My size was from that?”

“Well, other factors as well. The amino acids and peptides were compromised so you weren’t processing protein very well. But your natural testosterone production was well below norms. In fact, that’s what was so curious! You had very, very little testosterone in you, and it was all out of proportion with your rage. In other words, your rage wasn’t hormone-fueled. Some tests we did, some of the mood-swings you may remember last fall, the one time you got sick …” She shrugged. “Testosterone poisoning.”

“Poisoning? Myself?”

“Yes. Not uncommon, but certainly life-altering for you.”

I looked at the ceiling. “You’re right; it’s late, and I’ve just discovered that the two women I love didn’t force me to become something I’m not. Wasn’t. Whatever.” I waved a hand and looked at them. “Under hypnosis I told you, or at least gave the indications, that I was female. Should be female. And you blocked the testosterone to help calm the rage, but my body also said, ‘Wow! Cool! Thank you very much! Let’s get busy making boobs!’”

They laughed at the unexpected image.

Judy was chuckling and nodding. “Pretty much.”

“And the reason I changed so far so fast is because it’s what I was always pretty much meant to be?”

Judy frowned slightly, then nodded in agreement, but Mom was already nodding. “So that’s the truth, sweetheart. Alan had no hope for a decent life, but Alyssa has every chance at success. Isn’t that what everyone wants for their child?” Mom gave me a direct look. “We did not conspire to turn you from a boy to a girl. You told us you were a girl and always had been and wanted to live as one from now on, and you went on and on about Susan and Amanda and other girls we’d never even heard of, and the things you wanted to do together but you couldn’t and it was breaking your heart. Broke my heart, too, to hear you hurting like that.”

Even with everything I’d learned that night, I was shocked at the admissions I’d made.

Mom’s face softened even more. “And my heart broke when you told us how miserable you were all the time, and about how grateful you were for Scotty as your only friend. And over time, you started telling us that you wanted to be more than friends with him and oh, God what were you going to do? So we blocked your rage, to ease your anger and anxiety. And then you began developing faster than we’d even imagined and so I gave my parental consent to experiment with the estrogen. Because by then you’d stopped being proto-Alyssa and you were Alyssa.”

Judy said, “But even that recently, not as fully-formed, as … real … as the pretty Alyssa I’m looking at.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s because every new experience just reinforces that I am pretty Alyssa. Huh …”

There was a comfortable silence as we all thought about what had brought us to this point, and where we were headed in the future, together, as three females.

“One thing,” I frowned slightly and looked at Mom. “If it’s too private, I understand, but when you two kissed a while ago, Judy whispered something to you.” I looked at Judy. “It was when you talked about moving here and meeting each other.”

Judy nodded but Mom just smiled and sighed happily. “Sweetheart, Judy had just said that we might not have met, remember? Then we kissed, and she whispered to me, ‘And we might not have met your daughter.”

My eyes stung and my throat tightened. I swallowed with difficulty and nodded. “Thank you!” I sniffed and looked down, blinking my tears.

Mom said, “I’ll clean up. Don’t worry about it, honey. You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted, Mom, but there’s this … floaty feeling of happiness.”

Mom’s smile was bright. “Because you’re so happy as Alyssa.”

“That, and because the two women I love most didn’t conspire, didn’t plot to make me a girl. You allowed me to … you allowed Alan to release Alyssa. And—” I had to stop for a yawn. “And so I’m declaring to you both, now that I know everything, that I absolutely agree with your decisions. Starting tomorrow, we all move forward making Alyssa the only Cunningham child. Your daughter.”

I stood and Mom stood and we hugged. Judy joined us.

And I knew that burying my father was the start of the best of our lives.

The End