My Response to my Estranged Son

Two years ago, I submitted an essay to PITT about video gaming, my son and his then-fiancé and trans ideology. Since then, I have had the privilege of hearing from him only twice, both within the month of July 2026.

In the weeks since I last saw my child, I have been struggling to work through the trauma that he managed to cause me in just 15 minutes. This submission is the story of that moment, to help me work through it and to give solace to other parents in similar situations, to show that we are not alone. It is also, as the title says, the response to what he said to me that I wish I had been able to give at the time.

It was the Fourth of July. My favorite holiday, being the barbecue-loving American that I am (my favorite is organic brisket prepared with spicy seasoning). My wife and I had been sick the previous week so it seemed unlikely we would be able to attend the family party. On the day itself, however, we were feeling fine, so we decided to go. Little did we know, our extended family had betrayed us, and we would meet there someone who we desperately wanted to see, and yet also desperately wanted to avoid. This is a feeling only a small subset of estranged parents (already a small subset of people) can understand. It took me longer than I care to admit to accept that it was in fact normal, that I was not broken, was not the one in the wrong.

The day started slowly. We arrived and I quickly noticed, though not consciously, a woman that I recognized but did not remember. She was tall, as are many of the girlfriends and wives of the men in my extended family, so I paid her no note. That was until I walked into the main room of the house and I saw someone else. Another woman, I thought at first, from behind, but then my son turned around. I recognized him immediately, even through the heavy makeup warping his looks. My heart dropped. I froze. He froze, like a deer in headlights, then, like a deer, he scurried away into the kitchen. I followed, not even bothering to alert my wife, who had not noticed him yet.

In the kitchen I saw my son, with the “woman” I had seen earlier. Then I recognized him too, my son’s husband – his childhood boyfriend, also confused about his gender. My blood boiled. I went to them and they stopped their panicked conversation. I said their names, and their faces warped – my son’s in false sadness, his husband’s in fury.

I said that I missed them.

I said that my wife missed them.

I said they are still welcome with us.

They did not appreciate this. My son exploded. He had seen my PITT essay, had hated it and thought it was full of lies. I asked him to be kind. I reminded him that I am his father and it was a holiday. He went on a tirade saying he was a she, he was a lesbian, claiming I broke his “wife’s” trust, I broke his trust and closed by demanding respect including use of his chosen name and pronouns. He and his husband left and I rejoined my wife. She was angry at me for not telling her that her son was here, but she understood. She was hurt, too.

Nobody, not one person who has not gone through this understands the pain that is felt by a parent of a “trans-identifying” kid. But all of us who have? We understand. We feel it, too. We are not alone, though it all-too-often feels that way. By God, does it feel that way. But we aren’t alone. We have each other and I always appreciate all of you PITT parents and contributors. I read your essays and I feel seen.

I did not respond at the time to my son’s tirade, but if I had had the fortitude, I would have said this:

No, you are not a woman. I have changed your diapers, and your mom has done so even more. We know the truth. No, I will not call you by your stupid chosen name, the closest I will come is pointing out that your obsession with trans makes you a veritable lunatic. No, that man beside you is not your wife, you are not a lesbian couple, you are both men who are afraid of growing up. You got confused by media and video games and rejected maleness because you associated it with responsibility. Well, suck it up. You’re adults now, 23 and 24 years old. Grow the %$#& up! Talk to us, your parents. We are far better to you than your grandparents were to us, and yet we still talk to them regularly. Because *that’s what children do*. That’s all your mom and I want, is to be respected like any other parent is. We don’t care about your politics; we don’t care about you being gay (we supported you always! Ever since you came out, we made it clear that we supported you and your boyfriend, *as the boys you are*.) So no, I will *never* affirm you, I will *never* call you anything other than your biological name, pronouns, and gender, but you are always welcome to come back when you accept reality. Your mom and I miss you, deeply.

I would have said all of that, and maybe more, but I didn’t. I didn’t. I’ve struggled since then with the feeling that I failed my son. But I have slowly come to accept that there was nothing I could do. I can only wait for them to see reality, to come back. And I can be ready to accept my son with open arms when he does return. That is all I can manage to do, or at least all that I can see.

Sincerely, a desolate father.