I should have seen this coming

I've been sitting here in my living room, the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of traffic outside the only sounds breaking the silence. I've got a cup of coffee getting cold on the table, and I've been staring at the blank screen of my laptop for what feels like hours. I guess I'm trying to make sense of everything that's happened, to understand how we got to this point. My son—well, she was my son, but that's a whole other story—has been going through some changes, and I'm not sure how to feel about it.

It started with little things, things that I didn't think much of at the time. His voice, for instance. It started to change, to soften. I thought it was just part of growing up, part of finding his own voice. But then it started to sound different, almost feminine. I'd catch myself wincing at the sound, feeling a pang of discomfort. I'd tell him, "Speak up, hon. You're mumbling." But he'd just shrug and say, "I'm fine, Dad." I guess I should have known then that something was up, but I was too busy with work, too busy with my own life to really pay attention.

And then there was the acne. It just... disappeared. One day it was there, the next it was gone. I figured it was probably because he was eating better, taking care of himself more. But now, looking back, I can't help but wonder if there was more to it. If there was something else at play.

His clothes started to change too. He went from wearing baggy jeans and oversized t-shirts to fitted clothes and then to clothing that seemed to hide his chest more. I'd comment on it, "You're not going out like that, are you, hon?" And he'd just roll his eyes and say, "It's fine, Dad. I like it." I guess I should have seen the signs then, should have known that something was up. But I was too busy trying to keep him on the straight and narrow, too busy trying to make sure he was turning into the man I thought he should be.

And then there were the outbursts. He'd scream, a loud, guttural sound that would echo through the house. And then, just as suddenly, he'd be quiet, his face pale and his eyes filled with tears. I'd rush to his side, my heart pounding with worry. "What's wrong, hon? Talk to me." But he'd just shake his head, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm fine, Dad. I'm just tired." I'd try to comfort him, to hold him close, but he'd pull away, his body stiff and unyielding.

I've always been a bit of a control freak, I guess. I like things to be a certain way, to be orderly and predictable. I thought I was doing the right thing, trying to guide him, to help him become the man I thought he should be. But now, I can't help but wonder if I was wrong. If I was too controlling, too overbearing. If I pushed him too hard, too fast.

I remember the countless times I'd tell him, "Stand tall, hon. Be a man." I'd instill in him a sense of pride, a sense of duty, a sense of honor. But now, I can't help but wonder if I was wrong. If I was too focused on my own ideas of what a man should be, too focused on my own expectations. If I was too blind to see the true nature of his being. Did I cause his newfound "gender"?

I've been trying to wrap my head around all of this, trying to understand how we got to this point. I've been trying to remember the signs, the portents of this impending storm. But it's hard, so hard. I'm a parent, a guardian, a protector. But I'm also a human being, a fallible, flawed individual, grappling with the complexities of life, the enigmas of existence.