As I sat in the graveyard alone, I reflected on my father’s 85 years on this earth. A life well-lived, now about to be celebrated at his funeral . And yet, there I was staying a discreet distance from the service – banished from attending my own dad’s memorial service.
Unfortunately, I knew this time would come. I had hoped that some reconciliation might be possible, but my mother had explicitly asked for me to stay away. The reason? I’m a trans woman and she – and my late father – wouldn’t accept my gender identity.
I had a happy, settled family upbringing. My childhood home – a council house on the edge of the city – was a place of security. My parents met when they were young and loved each other dearly – they truly were soulmates.
It wasn’t without its challenges though, as money was always tight so my family had to be thrifty. My mother made her own clothes and I’d often help, picking out the pattern, and watching her pin and sew the cloth, to the final creation – typically a dress she‘d wear on a Saturday night out. As I grew up, I realised that there was nothing I wanted more than to wear those dresses.
So whenever I had a chance, I’d try on my mother’s clothes . It always had to be in secret though, when my parents were at work and my sibling at school. I was paranoid about making sure the clothes I wore were put back exactly as I found them.
Whenever I had a chance, I’d try on my mother’s clothes The prospect of being found out ter.
