I was running late, again. It’s so hard to get away from the crowd, sometimes. Everyone wants just a minute of your time, or just a quick selfie, or just a chance to shake hands. And, in a tight election, with just weeks left to go, I certainly didn’t want to offend anyone by brushing them off.

But, I also didn’t want to offend people by being late, which meant that I needed to move, now. Fortunately, I have very competent staff who make sure that happens when it needs to . . . and not before.

Portia – young, dark, intense – was my advance guard today; she was firmly taking my elbow and making apologies to the couple I was leaving. “So sorry; the governor has to be in Torvill for another event . . . thank you SO much for coming!”

The back door to the black sedan was open and I was down, Portia hopping in front to ride shotgun. My driver, Gavin, was already in gear. And off we went.

I turned my phone back on – I leave it off during events because it’s critically important that I really be present at whatever event I’m attending, rather than have my attention endlessly divided. Portia’s immediate superior, my chief of staff Dwight Evans, would most assuredly get word to me of any real emergency that I absolutely had to address. But it always amazed me – dismayed might be a better term – exactly how many not-quite earth-shattering emergencies cropped up any time my phone was off for an hour. 13 texts; I don’t even know how many emails.

But one of the texts was from Sandy, so I opened it immediately. “Sorry Sam. Need to meet you right away. Gav’s going to drop you off at Abbott Park. Cleared with Trig.”

I said, “Gav? We’re headed to the Fall Festival at Torvill, right?”

Gavin said, “Abbott Park first, boss. Just got the word from Trig.” Trigva Sorensen, aka “the Boy Wonder,” was the chief scheduler for the campaign. He always found a way for me to squeeze 26 hours of work out of an 18-hour day, bless his eager heart. But having me skip a scheduled event should have been above his pay grade.

I shot him a text. “What gives, Trig? I’m supposed to be in Torvill in 30 minutes and we’re 45 minutes out.”

The response was immediate. “A ‘how high’ moment, Governor. We’re reworking the schedule and will send to Gav & 911 when finished.” Portia purely hated Trig’s nickname for her, but it did make for a shorter text.

Well, this sounded serious, alright. Sandy wasn’t just my spouse. I made it very clear to the professionals we hired for the campaign that there was no better political mind on the planet. Sandy almost never dipped an oar into my campaigns anymore, but I told the campaign staff, on no uncertain terms: “If Sandy says jump, you ask ‘how high?’ Don’t wait to talk to me.”

But this intervention wasn’t like Sandy at all. Why not just call me? Or ask me to call? Once the calendar flipped to October in an election year, there were no spare moments for anyone. Nothing but a grueling series of 18-20 hour days, zipping between events and dialing for desperately needed campaign dollars.

We could have been anywhere in the state that day, but it happened that we weren’t all that far from home. Sandy had my schedule and would have known that. Abbott Park and the Abbott Memorial Reservoir were old stomping grounds, and the loop trail around the reservoir had left its dust on many, many pairs of my shoes. Sandy’s too. Back when we were just a couple young lawyers with a couple kids to raise. Before the local Democratic Town Committee chair had approached me to run for a slot on the town council and I had shocked everyone by winning the most votes and becoming mayor.

Life had definitely taken a turn after that. Six years as mayor, then my first state-wide race. Eight years as the hard-charging Attorney General. The last four years, Governor.

I remembered walking that loop trail with Sandy, and with little Jack, and Brittany. Brittany always wanted to drop Pooh sticks from the stone bridge over the small stream that served as an outflow. I remembered her squeals as she watched the sticks drift away, bouncing from rock to rock . . . . Seamus, the inquisitive Irish Setter, would sometimes chase the sticks, barking for the sheer fun of it.

But I honestly couldn’t remember if I’d ever taken the walk with Chase, our surprise third child. Chase had been born a bit after I started my third two-year term as mayor. By the time he was capable of walking any distance, I was spending most weekdays down at the capital. I felt guilty about that, but Sandy, as always, had picked up the slack. Without a single complaint, ever.

My trip down memory lane was interrupted by the sound of the car’s tires crunching on the gravel of the parking lot at Abbott Park. Gavin put the big beast by the entry walk, next to Sandy’s Prius. Sandy got a lot of jokes about that car.

There was no sign of Sandy, but I knew where to go. I said, “I’ll be off the grid until I get back. Shouldn’t be more than a half hour, but I’m off the grid regardless. Hold the fort, okay?”

Portia looked distinctly unhappy; Dwight was not going to approve of my disappearing into the woods without her. I imagined that Tanya Goodwin, my campaign manager, would be even less happy. Positively apoplectic, was more like it. But I had meant what I said: “How high.” I suppose it applied to me too.

I was wearing good shoes and I cursed that I hadn’t thought to have a change in the car. Presumably Sandy knew better than to be planning a hike, and a little shoe polish would hide any problems. Most days they got a lot of wear, lord knows. I went through the break in the parking lot fence and walked down the paved pathway that led through a small band of trees to the reservoir.

As I got among the trees, the paved path became carpeted with leaves – oak and ash and maple, especially maple. A kaleidoscope of reds and oranges and yellows and browns, still damp from the brief shower that had passed through the area at sunrise.

The sky was clear now, without so much as a cloud to mar the deep, deep autumn blue. I found myself, as I rarely did, wishing with all my heart that I could just spend the day walking around the reservoir, hand in hand with Sandy, discussing nothing more consequential than what we might like to have for dinner.

On the other side of the trees, the Abbott Memorial Reservoir opened in front of me, a breathtaking view on a clear day in early fall. Sandy was sitting on the park bench that faced the reservoir’s southern edge. Just as I expected. Looking, as usual, like an elephant perched on a footstool.

James Alexander Wilson, Jr., “Sandy” to his friends (his father having cornered the market on “Jamie”), was a mountain of a man. Six and a half feet tall, arms and legs like tree trunks and a chest like a blacksmith’s. The years had only added to his bulk. Back in the day, people had joked about how the two of us managed . . . well . . . things. Given my own, trim 5’4” frame.

I had always just smiled. The truth was, Sandy was one of those giant men who, because they have nothing to prove, are extremely gentle. The missionary position might have killed me, but there are lots of other positions. Fortunately.

For a man of his bulk, he was pretty light on his feet; he easily rose to his full height as he heard me approach, turned and smiled a welcome. “Good staff you’ve got,” he said. “Trig’s definitely a keeper.” Dangling from his thumb and forefinger were a pair of light-blue sneakers. My sneakers.

“Sandy,” I said briskly, “If you say it’s important, it’s important. But you know my schedule. Can we just talk here?”

He shook his head, “A bit too public, Sam. Better if we’re walking, in the trees.” There were other people in the immediate area, and my face was well known. But still . . . I was getting nervous. Sandy, worried about casual onlookers? Or was he worried about press people and campaign oppo types?

But this was Sandy, so I just sat down, took off my signature red pumps, donned ankle socks and laced up the sneakers. Fortunately I was wearing denim pants – it was sort of a “down-home” day for the campaign, with stops at several harvest festivals. I had put a windbreaker over my blouse and my sky-blue blazer was hanging up in the car.

Sandy took my pumps and put them neatly into a daypack. We walked off the paved area and headed out on the dirt path that looped around the reservoir. In a couple of minutes we were back under the trees. “Okay, Sandy,” I said. “Give.”

He said, “Of course, but keep walking. Like we aren’t discussing anything serious.”

I had a sudden, panicked thought that he was about to tell me that he was leaving me, or had had an affair . . . . something about his extreme caution, coupled with his apparent serenity, was freaking me out. “Fine,” I’m afraid I snapped. “I’ll walk. Just tell me what the hell is going on!”

“I forgot some papers yesterday and went home to get them. I found Chase alone in the living room, wearing a dress. Actually, dressed like a girl from head to toe. Did a nice job of it, too.” I froze and he said, very softly, “keep walking, sweetie.”

I forced myself to keep pace. “Why . . . what . . . ?” My brain was having a hard time processing.

He put a hand on my elbow, as if to guide me over some tricky footing, and kept us both moving forward. “We had kind of a long talk, as you might imagine. ’Til late at night – too late to call you. I think we now know why Chase’s grades went into a tailspin two years ago. Chase believes that he – or rather she – is female. She hasn’t wanted to say anything. Figured it might hurt you. Politically.”

I didn’t ask if Chase was certain. Almost any parent would. And, if it had been Jack or Britt, I would have asked. But Chase? If Chase said that moon rocks were made of green cheese, I’d take a healthy bite without a second’s worry for my incisors. Chase didn’t say anything unless he was certain. She was certain? Was it really “She?”

Well . . . even if “she” was certain, wasn’t it possible “she” was mistaken? “Do you think Chase is right? IS Chase transgendered?” I cringed internally at my avoidance of the pronoun.

Sandy nodded. “It was a very long talk, Sam. I wanted to be sure too. And yes, I think she is. She’s felt this way for years. With puberty coming . . . well, it’s just come to a head.”

We walked further as I processed that. Tried to adjust my mental picture of Chase, my stubborn, studious, reserved youngest child. Chase is a girl?

Sandy added, “She's right about the other thing too, you know. It will hurt you, politically. If people know.”

This time I had no trouble continuing to walk. I didn’t want to talk about the politics. I wanted, for a moment, just to be a mom. To sit with this. Try to figure out how to do this right, what it would take to be a good parent here. Life gives you moments – generally rare – that your children will remember forever. The moments they will judge you on, for the rest of their lives. What did you do, in that moment when they needed you most? In that moment when your values, and your love, were put to the test? This was, without a doubt, just that kind of moment.

But I wasn’t just a mom, and being the governor – being any sort of political figure – isn’t just a job you can leave at the end of a long day. It permeates every aspect of your life, whether you want it to or not. There was no question about my supporting Chase if – I made a mental adjustment – she had determined that she was transgendered. Support for people who are transgendered, or whose children are trangendered, has always been part of my political platform, and I had been firmly in their corner both as Attorney General and as Governor. No; my private inclination and my public positions were entirely consistent on this question.

But I could follow Sandy’s thinking without having him spell it out. The real question is, does Chase’s decision become public, and if so, when? If it became public, it wouldn’t change many people’s minds. Transphobic people weren’t going to support me anyway, and I probably wouldn’t increase my support among the trans community beyond what it was anyway.

But elections, especially in non-presidential years, are all about which people bother to show up and vote. A governor announcing on the eve of an election that one of her children was transgendered would drive voter participation through the roof – but only for her opponent. Daniel Kasten wasn’t a bigot himself, but if he needed the bigots’ votes in order to win, and he did, he knew how to pander to their darker impulses. Chase – studious, stubborn, sensitive Chase – would become a recruiting poster for the worst elements of Kasten’s base.

Worst of both worlds, there. Bad for Chase, bad for me, politically. And bad for all of the things that I had spent the last eighteen years in the public sphere fighting for. Bad for all the people who had chosen me as their standard-bearer. I was a pretty good Governor, if I do say so myself, but that wasn’t the important thing.

The tough part was that Daniel Kasten would be a truly awful governor. Including, most pertinently, on issues affecting the LGTBQ+ community. A “don’t say gay” bill and a “bathroom bill” were both part of his campaign’s platform.

“Can we keep this quiet, just for now?” I was thinking out loud. Maybe grasping at straws. Looking at the sky; at the leaves. Maybe at the trail. Looking anywhere except in the direction of my towering spouse.

“Do you mean, ‘can it be done?’ or do you mean, ‘should we do it?,’” Sandy asked.

“Let’s start with the first,” I said, “since if the answer’s ‘no,’ we don’t have to face the second.”

Sandy waggled his fingers. “Hard to say. Chase told some close friends from school. She believes they haven’t said anything. But if they have, or if they do later, then you’ll be in much, much worse shape. So will Chase, for that matter.”

I could picture it now: “noted trans advocate Governor Sam Hobson is hiding the fact that her child is trans.” That wouldn’t play well with the trans community (“are you ashamed?”), the anti-trans crowd (“anti-religion AND a hypocrite!”), or even the majority of folks for whom transgender issues were not a pressing concern. They would just peg me as dishonest, or at least, non-forthcoming. And poor Chase would think she was responsible for the whole debacle.

But . . . Chase’s friends might prove trustworthy. Chase was a sober soul; did not make friends easily. Or lightly. Maybe it wouldn’t become public. Wouldn’t that be better? Would it be right?

What did I owe the voters? It’s not like I had ever taken the position that my family life was no-one’s business. Being a working mom was most definitely part of my public persona. Pictures of me with my family, with Sandy, Jack, Britt and Seamus, and, later, with Chase, had always been included on my campaign literature. It was a way of saying, “I’m just like you; just another parent trying to make ends meet and make a better world for my kids.”

It was also a way of communicating my values. I’m a lot of people; we all are. A daughter, a sister, a lawyer, a Christian, a public official. But the thing that went on all my lit was the thing in all the world that I was the most proud of. The family that Sandy and I had made.

My current campaign website had a great picture of the five of us, shoveling snow together. We’d had a freak storm the day before the scheduled photoshoot and Tanya had said, “Perfect!” Chase – a very clearly male-looking Chase – was captured in the process of sending a snowball arcing towards Sandy. Sandy, Britt and I were leaning on our shovels, laughing; Jack – the only one of the three kids to inherit his dad’s size and strength – was the only one who seemed to be actually working.

Did the voters deserve to know that that image, so traditionally wholesome, masked a different reality that might not sit so well with some voters?

I thought about that some. In general, I thought the answer was “no.” The other members of my family were people too, and while my life has to be an open book that doesn’t mean that theirs have to be as well. They weren’t just campaign props.

But if we were doing the website today, would I include a family photo? I would. And if Chase wanted to present as a female in the photo, I would support her. But suppose she said, “no, let me look like a guy in the photo, even though I’m not?” Would I be okay with that?

No, I thought. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t deliberately obfuscate what I knew to be true, for “political expediency.” Which is just a fancy way of saying, “trying to get people to vote for you based on misconceptions that you deliberately fostered.”

“What are you thinking?,” Sandy asked. I guess I’d been lost in thought for a while. We were well past the point in the trail where it starts climbing up to a ridge overlooking the reservoir.

“I’m going in circles,” I confessed. “If we’d known six months ago, we’d probably simply have done what any sympathetic parents would have done, and when the story surfaced, we’d have put out a statement saying we were supporting Chase’s decision and didn’t intend to address it further. If we were lucky, it would be old news by now. Certainly it wouldn’t drive turn-out like it will this late.”

We walked another thirty yards or so before I added, “If we’d known a year ago, maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t have run again. We could have dealt with this as a family, without the public spotlight.”

“Absentee ballots have already gone out,” Sandy said. “Your name’s on the ballot even if you drop dead tomorrow. And anyway – Robotman couldn’t win this thing.”

Rob Ottman, the running mate who had been foisted on me by the party poobahs, might as well have been a robot for all the charisma he displayed. Except that no-one would build a robot with such an underpowered CPU.

“I know,” I sighed. I could lose this election, even without this new complication. But it was clear to all of us, the poobahs very much included, that in the current political environment we didn’t have anyone who had a better chance.

We walked on in the silence of our own thoughts, hearing the gentle sound of the wind rustling the leaves, pulling them from the life-giving branches, scattering them in swirls of random color. The air smelled sweet, clean. Why couldn’t life be as beautiful, as simple, as a walk through the woods in a morning in October?

“Let me ask you this,” Sandy said. “If it were just the election, if you didn’t have to think about the firestorm that will hit Chase, what would you do?”

I thought about it. It didn’t take me long. “I’d go public. God, I want to beat that bastard Kasten like he was a five-gallon bucket on a city street corner. But I’m not ashamed of Chase, and I wouldn't want anyone to think I was. If it’s she, it’s she.”

“Even if you knew it would cost you the election?,” Sandy pressed.

I stopped, forcing him to stop as well, a bit short of the crest of the rise. “You taught me better than that, love,” I said. “The voters get to decide whether I stay on the job. I’m just supposed to make sure they have the information they need to make the choice.”

His soft smile was a communion of sorts – a deep sharing of years and years of memories. Of hard-won battles, fought side-by-side. Three municipal campaigns; he’d run the first two. After that, he faded into the background, my frequent absences making his presence at home with the kids all the more critical.

But the imprint of his character was on every subsequent effort, even the state campaigns where I had the high-priced talent. The operatives whose only asset was their favorable win-loss ratio. Sandy had more integrity, more faith in democracy, than all the political operatives combined. I was the public face, but it was very much our political career.

“So, yeah,” I said. “I’d still go public. Even if I knew I’d end my career, that bastard would get my office, and he would do his damndest to undo all the good we accomplished. Because if that’s what the voters want, that’s what they get.”

“Okay,” Sandy said. “So then, the only question is what’s best for Chase?”

“Yes,” I said. “Like it should be. And I’m torn there. I need her to know I support her. That I’m not ashamed of her. If we try to keep it quiet, after she’s told you, all the nice words won’t matter. She’ll think I’m ashamed. She’ll think all my public support for trans rights was a sham. But on the other hand . . . .” I stopped. The other hand was, after all, pretty grim.

“They’ll tear her apart,” Sandy summarized. “Dan Kasten’s crew won’t give a shit about what they might be doing to a fourteen-year-old. She will be the poster-child for everything that’s wrong with the ‘liberal elites.’”

I nodded miserably. “I know,” I said. “I know.”

Sandy reached up and laid one of his massive palms against my cheek, wiping the single tear drop that had escaped my burning eyes. “So does she, love,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s time to bring her into this conversation.”

I opened my mouth to begin a question, but saw the answer already in his understanding eyes. I knew where she was. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go talk to our daughter.”

I took Sandy’s hand and we walked fifty yards further, to where the trail hit the crest and leveled out. There, I well remembered, was a quiet bench overlooking the reservoir, a little lawn, and the spreading branches of a mighty sugar maple.

We had sat together on that bench, Sandy and I, fifteen years ago, on a day much like this one. Jack was high in the branches of the tree; Britt was chasing Seamus, Seamus was chasing his frisbee and we . . . we were alive and in love and chasing our dreams. And I had told my wonderful man, in the privacy provided by the kid’s temporary distraction, that he was going to be a father again. Our last child, though we hadn’t known that then.

And there she was, sitting on that same park bench, dressed appropriately for a walk in the autumn woods – sneakers, capris and a cute sweater. Sensible makeup, of course. Subdued nail polish. Chase would have spent hours of study figuring out what was appropriate and would never look over the top or garish.

Chase had deep-set, warm, expressive eyes that revealed a sensitive nature. She turned those eyes towards us as we emerged from the trees, seeing Sandy first – of course – but then finding me and watching closely, anxious to see my reaction. Afraid of rejection, certainly. But also afraid of what this all might mean for me, for everything I had worked for. Everything we had worked for.

But the stubborn was there too, thank God, in the set of her jaw. She would need that. My studious, stubborn, wonderful youngest child.

My daughter.

I opened my arms as wide as I could, picked up my feet and ran to meet her.

— The End

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