We Didn't Ask For This

Strip Mall Parking Lots

"Get your fucking mind straight. I didn't give birth to a boy."

"I raised a girl, not a boy; not whatever this is -- whatever you are."

The loud, gut-wrenching thud of a fist slamming down onto a wood table brought Peter back into reality and away from mentally shouting abuse at himself. You shouldn't've cut your hair off, you fucking moron. You should've just kept your mouth shut. His eyes were watering, and flinching to the noise of his father's fist on the table caused them to start spilling down his cheeks.

"I raised you. I've known you your whole life, before you can even remember living. I know you better than you know yourself, and you are not a boy." His face was red with anger while his wife was pouring whiskey on rocks into a glass. "You never have been."

"I just don't feel comfortable being a girl anymore," said Peter quietly. "I haven't for a while."

"What am I supposed to say to my co-workers?" said Peter's father, ignoring him. "What do I tell people when they ask, 'How's your daughter doing?' I'll have to say that she went and chopped her hair off and went into surgery to get a dick. Then they'll think I did a fucking awful job parenting if my daughter wasn't happy being a girl. They'll think I denied you of pretty dresses and fake makeup, they'll think I didn't spoil my little princess, and they'll think it drove her to want to be a boy."

Peter couldn't stop himself before he shouted, "Who gives a shit what they think?"

There was the sound of glass being set abruptly on the counter.

His father shared a disgusted glance with Peter's stepmother for a quick second. "My reputation is at stake here," he said, then addressed Peter by his birth name. "No one will want to buy from a business man with a freakish tomboy of a daughter."

Peter cringed at hearing his birth name. "Please don't call me that," he said quietly.

"I am calling you that because that is what we named you. You can't just decide to change your name, all willy-nilly."

"I'm not 'just deciding' to change it, Dad," pleaded Peter. "It's my name. You said it yourself."

"When did he say anything like that?" said Peter's stepmother from the kitchen.

"When I was 12," answered Peter. "I asked what you would have named me if I were a boy. You said you would've named me Peter."

"But we didn't," said Peter's father sternly.

Peter lowered his head and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was on the verge of breaking down into a sobbing mess.

"And this?" His father reached across the table and grabbed a hold of the strap that held up Peter's homemade binder. He pulled on it quite a bit before letting it go and snap against Peter's shoulder. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's a binder."

"It's a tank top. Why do you wear it all twisted like that?"

"'Cause I feel more comfortable when I have a flat chest."

His dad squinted at him. "Boys don't like a girl with a flat chest. You'll never get a husband like that."

"Maybe I don't want to get married," defended Peter. He didn't dare break it to them now that he liked girls.

"You're going to leave me with no grandchildren?" said his stepmom.

"I don't exist to give you grandchildren! If I were a boy--"

"Stop saying what things would be like if you were a boy!" yelled his father. "You're not a boy, okay? You're not."

Peter let out a sigh. There's no point. "I know. I'm sorry." He stood up to leave.