“I couldn’t care less about you,” he spits. “But I’m not going to end up in jail for failing to financially support you either. So, until such time as you leave to live with Scarlett, we will not interact. Just act like I don’t exist; that’s what I pn to do with you. Is that clear?”

  “Do you truly hate me that much?” I murmur.

  “Yes!” He thunders and sms my door as he storms off.

  I stand there, frozen, as the sound of his footsteps fades down the stairs. The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing. Tears burn in my eyes and blur my vision, but I refuse to let them fall. Not for him. Not anymore. Walking over to the door, I lock it and then stoically return to unpacking my bag.

  My hands shake as I pull out my clothes, put away the new items I bought with Kelly Anne yesterday, and put yesterday’s outfit in the hamper. The routine is strangely comforting, a distraction from the hollow ache in my chest. I focus on the task, refusing to let my mind wander to his hateful words still echoing in my mind.

  After I complete my task, I’m left with nothing to do, and I simply sit down on the bed, remove my sandals, and curl up on the bed in a ball. I want so badly to cry, to find some sort of release from this, but my tears never come. I stare bnkly at the wall, my mind a jumble of fragmented thoughts and emotions. The muted beige paint seems to mock me with its normalcy, as if my world hasn't just shattered around me. I don't know how long I y there; time seems to stretch and contract in bizarre ways.

  Eventually, I force myself to sit up; my body protests after being in one position for so long. My room has grown dark, save the soft light of the streetlight some ways down the street. I move to the window, peering out at the familiar neighborhood that now feels alien.

  A car pulls into the driveway next door, and I watch as a family piles out, ughing and chattering. The sight twists something inside me, a reminder of what my father has ripped away from me, and I turn away, unable to bear it any longer.

  Gncing at the clock on my dresser, I find it’s after midnight. If I had hoped or thought my mother would come to comfort me, those hopes have been dashed. My mother has always been dominated by him; normally, her minor stands crumble the moment he raises his voice. She loves me, but she rarely takes a hard stand against him once he’s decided something, so she won't come, probably hoping to keep the peace.

  My stomach rumbles, compining that I haven’t eaten since 7 AM yesterday at Kelly Anne’s, though that feels like forever since it happened. I was happy then, looking forward to my day, and now I barely was able to force myself out of bed. Regardless of the bottomless pit I find myself in, my stomach gnaws at me insistently. Quietly, I unlock my door and pad downstairs.

  The house is dark and silent, everyone else long asleep. The cloying darkness devours me, weighing me down and reinforcing my feelings of being completely lost and alone as I head down the stairs to the kitchen.

  The light from the refrigerator temporarily blinds me when I open it. After my eyes adjust, I see a pte on the top shelf filled with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a couple of dinner rolls covered in pstic wrap. Even though he probably ordered her to act as if I no longer exist, this is most likely my mother's doing—her small act of rebellion against him, her subtle way of showing me that she still cares about my well-being and loves me.

  As I gingerly remove the item from the refrigerator, a suffocating darkness envelopes me like a heavy bnket, smothering and crushing me with its weight. My hand trembles uncontrolbly as I set the pte on the counter. Desperately, I reach over to flick on the sink light, hoping for even a small glimmer of light to dispel the oppressive darkness that threatens to drown me.

  The weak light from above the sink casts long shadows across the kitchen, transforming the familiar space into something alien. I grip the counter and force myself to take slow, deep breaths, trying to calm the trembling that wracks my body.

  When I feel a little more settled, I pce the pte in the microwave and stand there in a daze as it rotates around, heating up my food. I have to repeatedly force my thoughts away from dwelling on the bitter reality my father’s uniteral decisions have created. Closing my eyes, I take another deep breath and whisper, “No, I won’t do this to myself again. I finally am who I should be. I can do this. I won't go back to who he wants me to be. I decide who I am; no one can force me to be someone I’m not.”

  The beeping of the microwave jolts me out of my thoughts. I take out my pte, grab a fork from the drawer, and sit at the kitchen table. Even though I know I need to eat to maintain my strength, I still have to force myself to slowly eat my meal. I mechanically clear my pte, then rinse it and pce it and my fork in the dishwasher.

  As I close the dishwasher, a wave of exhaustion washes over me. The emotional toll of the day has left me drained and depressed, the weight of it all pressing down on my shoulders. I lean against the counter for a moment, gathering the strength to make my way back upstairs.

  The house creaks and settles around me as I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the st. When I finally reach my room, I close the door behind me with a soft click and lock it. Leaning my forehead against the cool wood, I stand there with eyes closed as I attempt to center myself and find some pretense of peace despite the emotional turmoil. Eventually, I push myself away from the door and make my way to my dresser.

  I turn on the small mp and undress, then slip into a soft, silky nightgown and step over to my bed. As I sit on the edge, my eyes happen upon a framed photo on my nightstand. It’s a picture of me and my father from years ago. Taken after a baseball game where I’d been named MVP. I remember how proud he was that day. Tears form and slip from my eyes, creating rivulets on my cheeks as I reach over and y it face-down, then return my hand to my p.

  I’ve always tried to be the person he wants me to be, but now that I finally have taken a stand to be myself, it’s apparently asking too much of him to accept it. Why can’t he accept me for who I am instead of wanting someone who never existed in the first pce? I’m still me inside. Yeah, my body is changing, and I dress differently, and maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he only loved the personality I created to please him, and he just can’t accept the real me. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it does.

  I brush away my tears and crawl under the covers and pull them up to my chin. I y there staring at the dark ceiling because my mind refuses to shut down and allow me a few moments of peace. I toss and turn, tangling myself in the sheets, but find no comfort. While I contend with my tangled thoughts and emotions, the clock remorselessly counts away the minutes and hours

  As the first hints of dawn begin to creep through my curtains, I give up on sleep entirely. As I sit up, I’m tense and anxious, wondering what new horror the day will bring. I softly sigh as I climb out of bed, pick up yesterday’s clothes from the floor, and pad to the bathroom. Pcing them in the hamper, I remove my nightgown and drop it in too, then begin filling my bathtub and add some vender-scented bath salts. While it does, I brush my teeth, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, fearing what I’ll see.

  Once it’s full, I climb in and close my eyes. The hot water envelops me, and I sink deeper, letting it cover me up to my chin. For a moment, I imagine myself disappearing beneath the surface, letting the warmth wash away all the pain and confusion. However, I resist the urge, knowing that running away won’t solve anything.

  Instead, I focus on the sensation of the water against my skin, trying to ground myself in the present moment. The steam rises around me, creating a cocoon of temporary peace. I breathe in deeply, the humid air filling my lungs, and slowly exhale.

  As I soak, my mind drifts to the uncertain future ahead. How long can I endure living in a house where I’m treated like a ghost? The thought of spending weeks or months under the same roof as someone who cims to hate me sends a shiver through me, despite the warmth of the bath. Thankfully, the heat works into my muscles, rexing them and easing my tension somewhat.

  I reluctantly climb out when the water begins to cool, drying off and wrapping a towel around me. I pad back to my room. The house is still eerily quiet, unsettlingly so. I remove a cute bra and panty set, select a halter top and shorts, and begin dressing.

  Once I’m dressed, I head downstairs to watch TV. Curling up on the couch with my legs pulled under me comfortably, I scroll through the menu to find something to watch. As I settle on catching up on a show I’m behind on, I hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway. I hold my breath, hoping it’s not him, but my hopes are dashed as he enters the living room. His eyes meet mine for a brief, icy moment before he grunts and looks away, heading to the kitchen without saying a word.

  I try to focus on the TV, but my attention is drawn to the sounds of cupboards opening and closing and dishes clinking. The coffee maker gurgles to life, its familiar aroma wafting through the air. Minutes pass in tense silence. I hear him pour a cup and half-expect him to retreat upstairs. Instead, he appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. I can feel his gaze on me, but I keep my eyes fixed on the screen, pretending to be engrossed.

  Finally tiring of him just staring at me, I look at him and ask, “Do you need something?”

  He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. The mug obscures the lower half of his face, but I can see the tension in his jaw. After what feels like an eternity, he lowers the cup.

  “We need to talk,” he says, his voice low and controlled.

  My heart rate quickens, but I force myself to appear calm. “Then talk.”

  He steps into the room, settling into an armchair across from me. “About this... situation. How long do you pn on staying here?”

  I bite my lip to keep myself from snapping at him yet again. In the end, I merely shrug and say, “I’d say that depends on what Mom works out with Aunt Scarlett.”

  He nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “I see. And you expect me to just... what? Pretend everything’s fine? Act like nothing has changed?”

  The accusation in his tone makes my temper fre, yet I somehow hold my acidic retort back and calmly reply, “Nothing has changed other than the way you look at me. I’m the same person today as I have been for years. The only differences are you finally know it, and I dress differently... As for pretending, I’m, like, a total master at that; I did it for years, and you never even knew, so what’s a little longer?”

  I sigh and look up for a second before I return my eyes to his. “I don’t want to fight with you. I absolutely hate it, but I’m not going to allow you to bully me into pretending to be someone I’m not either. Dad… Whether you believe me or not, I’ve always respected you, and I love you, but I just can’t pretend anymore. May I ask you a serious question and you give me a serious answer?”

  He leans back in the chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest. For a moment, I think he might refuse, but then he gives a curt nod. “Go ahead.”

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “I was 11 when they tried putting me on testosterone, and it did nothing. They told us then I had AIS.” He nods in agreement. “Then this,” I say as I gesture to myself, “should have been expected. Right?”

  His eyes narrow, and I can see the internal struggle pying out across his face. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, seeming to carefully consider his words. “Expected? Yeah, we were told to expect it. Accepting it? Well, that’s a whole ‘nother ball game,” he finally says, his voice low and strained.

  I never look away from his eyes as I ask, “Then what were you pnning to do? Have them chop me up to get rid of my inconvenient bits?”

  His face contorts as anger fshes across his features. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far, but then his shoulders slump, and he lets out a long, weary sigh. “No, of course not,” he says, his voice barely audible above the murmur of the TV.

  “I’m not trying to be a smart ass here; I genuinely want to know what your thought processes are about it... Alright, so you weren’t going to chop me up. So what then? Were you pnning on presenting me as being your rather feminine son? One with boobs, wide hips, and long legs?”

  His jaw clenches, and I can see the muscles in his neck tighten. He looks away, staring at some point on the wall behind me. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, he speaks, his voice rough. “I don't know, alright?”

  “Dad,” I say with my voice soft and gentle. “If you don’t know, then who does?” I stand up and walk over to him and squat down to take his hand. He flinches but allows me to hold it. “Daddy, I honestly wish none of us had to deal with this. I wish I was the son you want, but they do nothing, and I simply can’t be what you need me to be. Why?” My voice cracks, and I pause for a moment to swallow. “Why can’t you see that you have a perfect daughter in front of you? One who loves you with all her heart? Why can’t you just love me enough to accept me?”

  His eyes finally meet mine, and I see a storm of emotions swirling in them—confusion, sadness, and something else I can't quite pce. He squeezes my hand almost imperceptibly. “I do love you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve always loved you. But this... I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  My heart sinks, and the all-too-familiar ache of rejection settles like a knot in my stomach. I want to scream, to shake him, to make him understand, but I know it won’t change anything. We keep having this circur conversation that does little more than produce an endless cycle of hope and disappointment.

  “Can’t or won’t?” I ask with my voice trembling slightly. “Because there’s a difference. One means you’re incapable; the other means you’re making a choice.”

  He pulls his hand away from mine, and I feel the loss of contact like a physical blow. “It’s not that simple,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair. “You can’t just expect me to change everything I believe.”

  I sigh loudly and release his hand as I stand up. “Then you are choosing to cast off your child like a piece of trash.” He flinches, but I push on relentlessly. “Alright, then we have nothing more to discuss... I’ll call Aunt Scarlett and talk to her. Maybe I can speed this up so you don’t have to deal with me any longer than necessary.”

  He stands up and brushes past me as he walks away and never looks back. I stand there until I hear his office door sm, which makes me jump. My lips press together as I shake my head, and then I return to my seat and curl up, staring at a TV that I’m not paying any attention to as I yet again struggle to not cry. Something I’ve become far too familiar with tely.