5 years ago

“Take the job Jane.”

I glare at my mother from across the table. I hate that name. And she knows it.

“You’ve already spent a ridiculous amount of time off for all of these surgeries.” She continues with a shake of her head. “You’ve completely ruined your body and for what? You’ll never be able to have kids.” She reminds me again as if I had wanted kids, as if donating my uterus hadn’t been part of the plan. “I already had to call in every favor I had to keep the position open.”

I clench my fists and look away from her. It’s such a nice and sunny day, but inside I feel my gut twisting in anger and even humiliation at my mother’s scathing words. Like she understands anything. I can hear snippets of other conversations coming from the other tables. They all sound quite pleasant and benign. I wonder what they think when they hear ours. Do they feel pity? Agreement? Or maybe they just don’t care. Why should they? It’s not their life choices that are being berated. We’re all just strangers sitting outside of a cafe.

“Jane!” My mother snaps at me.

I look back over at her, “It’s Desmond. I finished getting all of my IDs and documents changed two weeks ago.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. A sound that I had become quite familiar with these past few years once I had come out as trans. Maybe I should have changed my last name as well. Just completely cut off all ties with my family, but that had seemed extreme. I didn’t think things could have gotten worse than they already were. No, a part of me had actually thought that maybe post-surgery they might be more understanding. If they could just see the real me and not the half-this-and-half-that me that I had been for so long they might actually accept my gender. I had been wrong.

“Did you call me out here just to yell at me?” I ask

“No, I came to tell you that your father and I are getting a divorce.” She informs me with cold precision. “We’re sitting down with our lawyers next week to get the paperwork filed.”

“Okay.”

“You could at least act surprised or concerned.” She says. Her annoyance at my blasé attitude is very apparent.

“Why? You guys have been ‘getting’ a divorce for as long as I have been alive. I’m more surprised that it took you this long.” I point out. This is definitely not the reason why she called me here. No, I have a sinking suspicion that she only wanted to have lunch and talk to me so she could try to convince me to take the position at her hospital. Which I’m not doing.

“Well, we were waiting until you finished all of your schooling and training and got hired on. But since you’ve so obstinately decided that being a doctor doesn’t matter anymore there’s no point in waiting any longer.”

I resist the urge to tell her that being a doctor had never mattered to me. They’re the ones who had insisted I follow in their footsteps and continue the family legacy. It had just taken this long for me to put my foot down and say no.

“Fourteen years completely down the drain.” My mother pantomimes her disapproval before taking a drink from her coffee.

I roll my eyes at the dramatics, “It’s not down the drain. I’m taking a job at the coroners office.” I tell her. I take particular delight as her face pales at this news.