My dad breaks the silence. “I’m trying,” he says. “I’ve shown you that. I’ve proven that. I don’t always get it right, but I’m trying to understand.” Sometimes, I don’t know if that’s enough. I feel like a shitty son, getting angry at my dad when he’s the one who paid for my hormones, my doctors’ visits, my surgery, everything—but every time I’m around him, I feel like I have to work hard to prove that I am who I say I am. It pisses me off that he doesn’t just accept it. That there’s something he has to understand in the first place. “I need you to be a little more patient,” my dad tells me.
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