I carefully snap the gold ribbon and take off the red paper. I’m unwrapping a Christmas gift from my grandmother.

“What’s she got you this year, Nathan?” my father asks as I stare dumbfounded into the box, frozen on the spot.

My mother comes up and looks over my shoulder, “Oh dear, it looks like she’s muddled the labels up. I guess that must have been meant for Sally.”

I pull the gorgeous maroon dress from its box and hold it up in front of me. Holding it against me and looking down it is possibly the closest I’m going to get to wearing this. I would so much like to slip it on, it’s painful.

“Hey, don’t look so disappointed, son, we can sort this out,” Dad says. “I bet the old dear is confused again. She really should get someone to help her wrap things.”

My mother gives my father a withering stare. The grandparent in question is my mother’s mother, and Dad recons she is starting to suffer from dementia.

“Wait,” my mother says looking in my direction, “she did get help.”

“I wrapped up all of her presents, except my own,” I say. “I spent most of all last Saturday helping her. I also wrote the labels, as her handwriting is becoming shaky.”

“She obviously missed one, and then labelled it wrong,” my father adds, using logic to understand the mix up.

We are interrupted by the phone. My mother answers it. Aunt Anne, her sister, is ringing us to wish us a happy Christmas. As she is taking, I reach for the second parcel from my grandmother. I was given very specific instructions on which order to open my gifts. She told me that the gifts would make better sense in the correct order.

I delicately unwrap the gift, wondering what it can be with both excited anticipation, and dread that it may be exactly what I want, but would never admit to anybody.

I hold up the silky lace slip, feeling the soft fabric between my fingers.

“Hold on one sec, I’m putting you on speakerphone,” my mother states as she puts down the handset and presses a button on the device. “Has Sally opened her presents from mother?”

“Yes, why?” the voice of my aunt fills the room.

“It looks likes Nathan has Sally’s Christmas presents,” mother replies, “I was wondering if perhaps she’s got them back to front.”

I remember wrapping a dress and slip identical to the ones now sat beside me. All Sally’s presents where wrapped in blue and silver, and I wrote the labels for them myself. That means she either undid and repacked the gifts, or she bought everything twice.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Anne replies, “unless she intended to give Nathan a red Christmas dress with matching slip, panties and shoes. There is also a large teddy bear, a set of princess pyjamas, and some jewellery.”

As she reads out the list of items I rapidly open the other gifts, my heart pounding in anticipation and fear. I know exactly what Sally got for Christmas, having wrapped them, and an identical set of gifts are now sitting in front of me.

“Beside’s which, Sally is smaller than Nathan and these wouldn’t fit,” Anne laughs down the phone. My cousin is three years younger than me at eight.

With a shaking hand I pick up the dress and look at the size on the label. It is not the same size as I wrapped for Sally. It is larger.

My mother sees what I’m doing and examines the labelling herself.

“Is there a problem? What’s mother sent to Nathan?” Anne asks.

“The same,” my father dryly responds.

“The same?” my aunt queries.

“Exactly the same,” I call out, “I helped wrap Sally’s presents. These are almost identical except for one small detail.”

“The size?” my father asks, cottoning on to what my mother and I have already realised.

“This dress should be a perfect fit for him,” my mother states in bemusement. “I know she said she likes to treat both her grandchildren equally when buying gifts, but this is ridiculous, even by her standards.”

I can hear giggling in the background over the phone. Sally must have worked out what is going on from my aunt’s side of the conversation.

“Has he got a dress like mine?” I hear the young girl call out in the background, before bursting out into laughter.

“This isn’t funny, young lady,” Aunt Anne tells her daughter, “how would you like it if you got loads of football shirts and boots?”

My cousin hates football. I can’t say I’m fond of the sport either. This seems to shut her up. She then asks to speak to me.

“Sorry Nathan,” Sally says having been handed the phone. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you. I’m sure you will look very pretty in the dress. Are you going to wear it today? I’m wearing mine, and we could match.”

I have no idea if she is being serious or sarcastic, but this is a very interesting question nether the less. I have fantasised many times about the magic of Christmas letting me wake up Christmas day as a girl. It would literally be a dream came true. There are two big obstacles to living the dream. Do I dare and will my parents let me? I take a deep breath and let the words, “Yes I will,” slip from my lips.

I’m not sure who is more shocked: my dumbfounded parents, the unusually silent Sally on the phone, or myself.

“You’re not seriously going to make a fool of yourself?” my father questions. “You would look ridiculous.”

“So,” I reply, “everybody who is going to be there already knows about what I’ve been given, which in some respects is the most embarrassing part.”

My family, and my aunt, uncle and cousin, are all going round to my Grandmothers for Christmas dinner.

“What about your Grandmother, she may be upset when she realises what she’s done,” my mother interrupts.

“Serves her right,” my dad chuckles, “if she’s embarrassed about what she’s given her grandson, she’s only got herself to blame. The dotty old bat.”

My mother gives my dad an angry stare before calling out into the phone, “we’ll see you later. I’m going to phone Mother and find out what’s going on.”

We quickly say our goodbyes to Aunt Anne, Uncle Tom and Sally, before mum hangs up the phone and attempts to dial my grandmother. The phone rings, but there is no reply.

“Damn, she either can’t hear the phone, or is ignoring it,” my mother declares as the fourteenth ring emerges from the device. “Now what are we going to do?”

I decide it’s time to take the initiative again. If my dream is going to come true, then I’m going to have to work for it. I carefully pick up the presents and state, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get ready to go out, and as it traditionally takes longer for girls to get ready than boys, I better get started.”

“Hold it right there, mister,” my father states as I start to leave the room. “We can’t get those exchanged once they’ve been worn. The joke has gone far enough. Let’s put them back in the packaging. Hopefully your grandmother has kept the till receipts, she usually does for cloths.”

I can’t fault his logic. Trying them on for size is one thing, but wearing them for a day before taking them back is another. I know some people would be crass enough to do it, treating the shops as a free hire service, but not us.

Once again I’m faced with a tough decision. I can quit now and let my heart’s desire slip through my fingers, or I can grasp it with both hands, hold on tight, and face the possible consequences.

I squeeze the fabric tight in my fingers. My father tries to take the presents from me, but I tighten my grasp.

“Nathan, give them here,” my father instructs, anger creeping into his voice.

“No!” I shout, my voice echoing round the room. I hadn’t intended to yell as loud, and both of us are surprised by the outburst. My father, caught off guard by my unusually forceful behaviour temporarily lets go of the garments. I seize the opportunity and sprint as fast as I can away from his grasp.

Bounding up the stairs as fast as I can, I reach my bedroom and slam the door behind me. I drop the presents on my bed, having no time to be as careful as I feel I should, as I vault over it. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I shove the bed sideways with all my might. The length of the bed is only a few inches shorter than the width of the room. By sliding the bed sideways, as far as the other furniture allows, it overlaps the door by six inches. This is enough to wedge the door closed, preventing my parents from entering.

I only just manage to get the bed positioned before one of my parents tries to open the door. The failure to do so results in banging on the door, and my father demanding for it to be opened.

“If you don’t open the door, then you can forget having those exchanged,” my father angrily calls through the door. “You can also think twice about keeping the rest of the presents you’ve got as well.”

“Fine!” I shout back. I’m shaking with nervous energy and tears are obscuring my face. I don’t care about anything else except the chance to be myself.

“Right, if you don’t want to come out, then you can stay in there,” my father states. “We’ll see you this evening when we get back from Grandma’s.”

“That’s enough, from both of you,” my mother interjects. Her next sentence I struggle to hear, as she has lowered her voice, “John, calm down and go get ready to go out. I don’t know what’s going on here, but for some reason, Nathan seems to want to wear that stupid dress. My mother may have her moments, but she isn’t that senile. This is no accident. Those cloths are our son’s size. This isn’t some labelling mix up, this was planned. She obviously intended for Nathan to wear them, and in any case, Sally can always make use of them when she grows into them.”

I hear footsteps going back downstairs and all is quiet. I dab my eyes with a tissue and wipe away the tears.

I climb onto the bed, reach up and open the cupboard above my wardrobe. The storage space contains extra blankets that are very rarely used. It is a good hiding place. Inside is one final gift from my Grandmother.

She took me aside and gave me this extra gift, telling me to keep it separate and hidden. I didn’t understand what she was telling me at the time, but things are starting to make sense. My grandmother told me that she got me something unusual for Christmas, and she may have made a big mistake, in which case not to worry or be offended. The final gift contains an explanation.

With some trepidation I tear the paper on the box. Inside a shoe box there is something wrapped in an opaque carrier bag, and a letter on top. I unfold the paper and start to read.

Dear granddaughter, for that is what I suspect you are. I hope and pray I’m not making a complete fool of myself.

I know your father criticises you for your effeminate behaviour, and I’ve seen the look of envy when Sally wears pretty clothes. When you have stayed with me over the summer when your parents were both working, I noticed how you always seemed to get on better with the girls in the neighbourhood, avoiding the boys as much as possible.

I also noticed how you sidestepped telling them your name, instead asking to be called by the gender neutral nickname of Biscuit, claiming you were embarrassed by your own name. I thought it odd until your name was revealed and saw how upset you were when the girl’s realised you were a boy, although you hid it well.

You never asked to be called by a girl’s name, presumably you didn’t dare, but you never corrected them, even when they referred to you with feminine pronouns. The fact that you spent several hours with those girls, without any of them realising your physical gender, suggests that you must be both comfortable and naturally capable in that role.

Indeed, I have never seen you as happy and relaxed as when in that short time you seemed to be accepted at face value.

I may be misreading the signs, in which case this whole incident can be written off as the ramblings of a demented old woman. However, if you do consider yourself to be a girl, or have any doubts about being a boy, then please don’t hide yourself any longer. I promise to do whatever is needed to support you.

You don’t have to use any of the items in this box, but I have included them should you feel the need. I don’t care what you look like, as long as you are happy, but I suspect you may want to make an impression, and these will help your self-image.

Granny.

I read the letter several times before placing it on the bed beside me. Her assessment is accurate. I thought I hid myself well, but she saw through my feeble attempts at pretending to be a boy.

I have been too scared for too long. I can’t go on living like this, denying my true nature. I empty the contents of the box onto the bed. There are a few extra items that Sally wouldn’t need for her outfit, but help me no end.

Being older, my grandmother has provided me with a training bra, and also some pads in which to fill it with. I also have been given a dancers belt, and instructions on how to use it. Although I am not yet well developed, I can see how such a device could be helpful in hiding the piece of anatomy that I really don’t like.

She has also taken a gamble and included a long wig. Sally has long hair, and I guess she picked up on how I usually end up combing it for her when we are together. The colour isn’t quite a match for my own, but as it only appears to be a cheap costume piece, I have no complaints.

I take some deep breaths to calm my nerves, and then start work on my transformation. I have imagined doing this many times, but to actually do this in reality may prove more difficult.

I start by stripping naked, discarding my pyjamas into the laundry basket. Given the choice, I will be wearing the new girlish ones tonight. I open the packet of panties and pull them up my legs. I tuck myself in and pull them into position. While not totally flat, they do hold me in reasonably well. As this may be a long day, I decide to go with it rather than using the gaff. I’m going to be in enough emotional discomfort without adding possible physical discomfort into the mix.

It takes me a little while to position the bra and pads, but with the help of some notes on how to adjust things left by my grandmother, I’m able to accomplish the task. I can’t accuse her of not being thorough; she seems to have thought of everything.

I have a mirror on my wall above my bed, and I sit in front of it so that I can apply some make up. I’ve never done this before, but I’ve watched videos on YouTube, so have an idea of what to do. I’m well aware of the “less is more” adage, so resist the temptation to go over the top. I’m going to look a big enough fool, without looking like a clown.

I carefully apply some mascara from the small makeup kit provided, and then outline my eyes with a black marker, to highlight them. A small dash of green to my eyelids compliments and contrasts the red of the dress. A small amount of blush and some lipstick complete the look.

For a first effort I’m satisfied. I don’t even bother to try and analyse if the face in the mirror is that of a girl or a boy. I know from experience the answer is always girl, no matter what I do.

I position the slip around my waste and carefully manoeuvre myself into the dress. I have to use the hook of a wire coat hanger to pull the zip up my back, as I’m struggling to reach.

“Are you ready yet, we leave in five minutes,” I hear my mother call up the stairs.

“I just need to comb my hair and put my shoes on,” I call back.

I carefully role the white tights with Christmas tree motifs up my legs, they also help to hold me in and flat where it matters most. I place the wig on my head, securing it with the clips to my own hair. Holding it firmly in place I brush it into shape. The long wavy hair tickles my ears and hangs down over my shoulders. I adjust the bangs hiding the front edge, so that they are just above my eyes.

Finally I place the red t-bar shoes on my feet. They have a slight heel, more than I’m used to, but not high enough to cause me to lose my balance.

I take my coat off the hook on the back of my door and carefully put it on so not to scrunch the dress. It is a plain black coat and is unisex enough in style that it doesn’t look out of place.

I carefully move the bed back to its normal position, and taking a deep breath, open the door to my room. I can hear my parents moving around downstairs, so with much trepidation, I begin to descend to my fate.

I see dad, dressed in his coat, carry the bags of presents out to the car. My mother is already stood outside holding the door key.

“Hurry up or–,” my mother starts, but never finishes the sentence as she looks up and sees me. Without saying a word, and keeping my eyes straight ahead, I walk past her towards the car, which is parked on the road outside our house.

As I walk the short distance down the pavement to where it is parked, I pass my father going in the other direction.

“Morning,” he says as I go by. I stop dumbfounded as he walks right past me, seemingly failing to recognise me.

“Is Nathan coming?” he asks my mother, who is too shocked to speak. Instead she simply points at me. I can see the surprise come to my father’s face as he looks back and realises who I am.

“Nathan is most certainly not coming,” I reply, “however, I am, so please can we get a move on, it’s cold out here.”

“How? Where?” my mother stutters.

“An extra gift from Grandma that she asked me to keep hidden. It seems she intended that I should be able to look convincing,” I answer.

My father unlocks the car, and without any of us saying another word, we climb in the vehicle. The journey is spent is silence.

I recognise my uncle’s car as we pull up outside my grandmother’s house. As I climb out of the car, trying to be as graceful as possible, a girl on roller-skates slides to a halt in front of me.

“Biscuit, is that you?” she says in slight surprise.

“Hello Jenny,” I reply. “New pair of roller-skates?”

“My old pair where getting rather worn out, and a bit tight,” she answers. “I like your dress, I thought that might look good on you, girl. I’m glad you’ve decided to end your tomboy phase.”

I blush at the compliment and it takes me a couple of seconds to process what she said. She is referring to me as a girl, even though she knows I’m male.

“You’ve seen this dress before?” I ask.

“Er, yes,” she shyly admits. “Your gran wanted some advice on what girls our age like. I’ve never been a lover of frilly dresses myself, but figured you and Sally would probably go for the fancier styling. I saw Sally arrive earlier, and she seemed quite impressed.”

Jenny’s phone beeps at her and she quickly bids her farewell. Her mother has just texted her that lunch is ready. As she skates off, I turn and walk up the garden path. My parents have been unloading the car while I have been chatting, and are now waiting for me at the door.

The three of us walk into the living room, where my grandmother, uncle, aunt and cousin are waiting.

“Oh my god,” Sally exclaims at seeing me. “Nathan, you look stunning.”

My grandmother clears her throat and raises her eyebrow, and Sally immediately has a guilty look come over her face, as if she has said something wrong.

“Oops, sorry Biscuit,” Sally quickly adds.

I give my grandmother a questioning look. It would appear Sally has been instructed to use my chosen nickname.

“Would you care to explain why my son is currently doing a Shirley Temple impression?” my father asks.

“You where thinking what is that demented old fool is doing now, treating her grandson as if he was a granddaughter,” my grandmother replies. Turning to me she asks, “Was my theory correct.”

I nod as I respond, “one hundred percent accurate.”

“I take it you haven’t explained this to your parents,” she states, to which I shake my head.

“How do you want to proceed? We can talk in private about this if you prefer,” she kindly offers, ignoring the obvious hostility from my parents.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve managed so far today, I think I can manage the final hurdle,” I reply.

“The floor is yours, Biscuit, or do you have another name you would prefer to use? I made the assumption that you wouldn’t want to go by your usual one.”

“You’re right,” I reply, “Nathan isn’t a girl’s name, and I’m most definitely a girl. Please, call me Emily.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Emily,” my grandmother says as she wraps me in a big hug.

I savour the moment, safe in her loving arms, hoping the next few minutes don’t explode into a nasty fight. As I cuddle the older woman, I wait for the silence to be broken.

It is my grandmother who speaks first, “Sally, please fetch the big white envelope from the top of the bureau. Inside you will find some leaflets. I would like you to give one to everybody. I’m not the best at explaining things, so I googled up material to help.”

I take a glance at the leaflets Sally is distributing. I knew my grandmother was getting into the internet and becoming a silver surfer, and she has obviously been doing some careful research on the subject. The envelop contains copies of several leaflets explaining transgenderism.

I was expecting open hostility from my parents, especially my father, but instead they seem to be taking the news calmly, and are actually reading the information provided.

“While you adults read the material, and you’re not getting lunch until you do,” my grandmother instructs, “I will finish cooking the meal with the help of my two granddaughters. I have some pretty aprons so your dresses don’t get dirty, unless you prefer to read as well, Sally. I assume Emily probably already knows the definitions.”

“I get the jist,” Sally responds, “Girl brain, boy body, square peg, round hole, trying to bash the two together leaves a wonky mess.”

I can see the impish grin on her lips. Sally is a known joker and an excellent wind up merchant. I know she is isn’t being mean and take her bait. I could use some humour to lighten the mood so respond, “who are you calling a wonky mess, squirt.”

Seeing me wiggle my fingers in a tickling motion, she decides to beat a hasty retreat through to the kitchen.

“Girls,” my Aunt calls out. “Behave.”

I turn and look in her direction. Her smile is infectious, and in one word I know I have her acceptance.

I grin back and follow Sally through to the kitchen with Gran. The only thing needing to be done is to turn on the vegetables. Instead, she has us finish setting the table, polishing the best silver for use, and placing the crackers from there box.

The dinner is excellent, and I’m especially careful not to drip down my dress, even though both Sally and I are still wearing the aprons, just in case. The meal is eaten in silence, something unusual for this house. I guess there is a lot more to digest than just food this afternoon. I note my parents are keeping a close eye on me, but try my best to ignore their stares.

After lunch, Sally and I are sent through the other room to watch a film, while the adults wash up. We are so involved in the story that we fail to notice that we are still alone when the movie ends. I can hear voices coming from the dining room, and it doesn’t take much to work out the subject of conversation.

With trepidation, and backed by Sally, we walk through to where our families are gathered. The room becomes silent as we open the door.

“Emily,” my mother addresses me, “I don’t fully claim to understand this, but I love you, and we will work through this no matter what.”

I always hoped my mother would accept me, but was too afraid to find out. I turn to my father.

“I always wondered what it would be like to have a daughter. I guess I’m going to find out,” he states before wrapping me in a hug.

“I guess it’s a good thing the sales start tomorrow,” my mother says. “It looks like we may have to buy some more cloths.”

With a sigh of relief, it looks like my Christmas wish is coming true. All thanks to an observant old lady, risking being branded mad, and her crazy plan to get me to open up.