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Viewing Note: This story should be viewed with the Edwardian Script ITC font installed on your Windows platform in the c:/Windows/Fonts directory. Microsoft Word installs this font automatically.

Editor's Note: Jenny Walker has graciously allowed me to represent her original story No Half Measures on BigCloset. Originally published on BigCloset Classic, this story segment was migrated over to BigCloset TopShelf on 2005-03-02. Due to the original story presentation format being unsuitable and unwieldy for most portable devices (each part being over 1 meg in length), the story is now being broken up into single chapters for easier reading. The original Movements will be indicated on their respective chapters. The first chapter of each Movement will retain the original comments and read hits so as to preserve them for the author.

Sephrena Lynn Miller

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Chapter 10
 
 
"Would you for goodness sake sit still and stop fidgeting," Claire chided, "you'll make me crash the car or something."

"Sorry," I apologised sheepishly, "I'm kind of nervous."

"Yeah well you're making me nervous too and I shouldn't have to feel nervous about this!"

"I know, sorry."

We were just passing Newport and were about halfway to Cardiff where my parents lived. Another 25 minutes or so and we would be there. I was more on edge than I think I had ever been in my life. I knew that this would not go well. There was no 'if' or 'maybe' about it. It would be bad. But I knew I had to face them. To be honest, I wasn't really fussed about what they would think of me. I was used to them being disappointed in me. Perhaps not openly, but I could sense it. But I was worried about the effect this would have on them. Claire was right, they would probably see it as some sort of parental failure on their part. I loved my parents to bits and was very appreciative of the way they had brought me up. Yes it had been strict, but they had taught me a high moral standard and given me a good foundation for life. I didn't think they would be able to reconcile that with what I was now doing though. Before we had left Claire's house, Claire had telephoned ahead to let them know we would be there around lunchtime. She also tried to give them a little heads up: she told them that I had something important to tell them, and that she was going to come in first to lay the foundation. Mum was extremely curious but Claire deflected her questions and said that all would be made clear later.

We pulled into my parent's street and Claire stopped the car at the end of the street. We were about 100 metres short of their house. We sat in silence for a moment. Claire looked at me and I think I must have looked exactly as I felt. Totally petrified. She smiled compassionately and reached across and gave me a hug, "Hey, this won't be easy, but we'll get through it."

I forced a smile, "I guess. Thanks Claire."

She shrugged, "Wish me luck."

I did just that and she got out and walked down to my parent's home. As I sat there, I think I felt as alone as I have ever known. I knew she would be inside by now and hugs and greetings would be over. I know Mum would have instantly started to pump her for information. Where was Nick? What was going on? What was this all about? I could only guess at how the conversation was going thereafter. The car was getting colder, but I didn't care. It helped to keep my mind focussed. After about 45 minutes I saw Claire trudge back up the street. She opened the door and plopped down into the driver's seat again. She exhaled slowly.

I looked at her expectantly and with a quaver in my voice asked, "Well?"

She shrugged, "As expected I guess. Not good."

I nodded and didn't know what else to say.

She squeezed my arm lightly, "They took it pretty bad. Dad's angry. He's not going to break things or anything. You know that's not his way, but he's stewing deep down. Mum's upset."

"Crying?" I asked.

She nodded, "A little."

I sighed. I just wanted to go, to get away from here. Anywhere but here. But I knew I had to face them. I couldn't keep running from this. "Do they want to see me?" I asked Claire.

She nodded, "Yes. They are going to try to talk you out of this. Talk some sense into you was how Dad put it."

I nodded again. "I'm not surprised. What did you tell them about what you thought?"

She shrugged, "I said I was shocked, initially felt the same as they did. But I told them that although I didn't necessarily agree with it, I could see your side of things. I tried to tell them to be open about it."

I laughed hollowly. My parents were good people, the best, but not very open to new ideas. "Well, now or never," I said with a grimace.

We got out of the car and walked slowly down the street. Claire took my hand and squeezed it tightly. I was so glad for her presence with me right now. I knew she wasn't totally sold on what I was doing, but it was a comfort to know she was trying to understand.

We arrived at the front door and let ourselves in. Mum and Dad were in the living room and I gingerly opened the door. They were sitting on the sofa facing the door. Waiting for us. Mum had red blotches on her cheeks and Dad looked downright irritable.

"Hi Mum, hi Dad," I said softly and stood in the doorway until Claire nudged me from behind. I stepped into the room a bit further. Dad looked closely at me and swallowed hard. Mum bit her lip as she took in my appearance. I stood there inside the room and looked at them as they looked back at me. No-one spoke for what seemed like an eternity but was probably more like a minute. Eventually my mother broke the silence. In a tremulous voice she said, "Nick son, come and sit down and let's talk."

I forced a little smile and sat down opposite them. Dad stared at me for a moment and then got up and began to pace up and down. This was quite familiar. I remembered him doing this when I was younger and had got into trouble. He would pace up and down keeping me sweating until he would remonstrate with me for whatever misdemeanour I had committed. He would never raise his voice excessively, his anger was always measured, but after sitting sweating while he paced up and down I was always ready to confess and apologise for anything - whether I had done it or not. I tried not to watch him and I focussed on my mother. I knew I had to say something, "Mum, I know this must come as a shock to you and I'm sorry to spring this on you like this, but I didn't think there would be any easy way to do this."

My father gave a little snort, but didn't say anything yet. His time would come. My mother looked exhausted. Her eyes were red and she was doing a seasonal impression of Rudolph the reindeer as her nose was just as red. "Nick," she said slowly shaking her head, "why?" A simple question. No simple answer.

I chewed my lower lip. "Mum, it's hard to explain. And I'm not sure you will really understand, but things just weren't right in my life. You know I was going nowhere, you know I wasn't really happy. This feels right. I feel happy." My voice gained some strength and enthusiasm, "I feel like I've got the spark back in my life, I've got direction and purpose. This is me."

My mother closed her eyes and again slowly shook her head, "Is this some kind of phase? Please tell me it's just a temporary reaction to your problems or something. We can get you some help, counselling perhaps?"

"No!" I said a little more emphatically than I had intended. My father stopped his pacing and fixed his eyes on me. "Sorry," I murmured in a more gentle tone, "But you have to understand. This is not a phase, it's not a fad, it's not a whim. Whatever else you don't or can't understand, please understand that I am perfectly serious. I have considered this fully, I have thought long and hard about this. This is not a game, a joke, whatever. This is real. This is it. This is me now. And if you can't accept me like this now, well I hope you will come to accept me because as much as I love you and I do love you dearly, I can't deny who I am. I know this must hurt you and please believe that it's the last thing I wanted and that's why I have held off from telling you this over the last few months. This is totally my choice and my decision. If you are wanting to blame someone for it, then place the blame at my door. I'm happy to accept that. This has nothing to do with anyone else, nothing to do with how I was brought up, it's no reflection on you both at all. This is me." I realised I had been monologuing for some time so I stopped and paused for breath. I smiled apologetically, "Sorry for going on, but I really had to get that off my chest. Go ahead now, whatever you want to say to me. I'm listening."

My mother shrugged, "I really don't know what to say. I just don't know why you are doing this...my only son..." Her voice broke and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, "William, you talk to him."

My father stopped pacing and stood with his back to the mantelpiece, his hands behind his back. I sat there feeling very apprehensive and swallowed nervously. It was a moment before my father spoke. He was a man who measured his words carefully. He spoke in an even tone, "Nick, I'm not going to lie to you. I have had some disappointments in life and that's to be expected. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. But I can honestly say that I have never been as disappointed as I am right now." He paused and I felt like I had been hit in the pit of my stomach. A child always craves the approval of a parent. And probably particularly from their father. A mother's love always sweetens any disapproval that she gives. I was expecting this, but it hurt all the same.

He proceeded to give me a sermon-like monologue detailing his disappointment and disapproval. He laid out point after point of reasons why what I was doing was wrong: morally, spiritually, intellectually, emotionally and more. I had expected it, but it was so hard to listen to. He did it all without raising his voice. I think if he had raised his voice and shouted at me it would have been easier to take as I could have rationalised it as the ranting of anger. But with my father it was always even and measured, spoken out of love and that made it all the harder to take. He continued on and on, and I began to feel the emotion welling up from deep down inside me. I tried to suppress it, but I couldn't. It bubbled up, until I could contain it no longer. A solitary tear trickled down my cheek. Another followed, then another until I was weeping freely. My father stopped. He looked uncomfortable and began to pace again. "I'm sorry Dad," I murmured as I rubbed my eyes with the tissue Claire handed to me.

My mother came over to me and put her arms around me. "Nick, you know we love you and that doesn't stop no matter what you do. We care about you and are concerned about you, you know that don't you?"

I nodded and through a few teary gasps replied, "I know...I know...and I'm so sorry for hurting you." I swallowed and tried to regain my composure. I dried my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I squeezed my mother's arm. "Mum, Dad, I love you both so much. And your opinions matter a lot to me. I've always respected your advice and I've always been thankful for the upbringing you gave me. You taught me how to be a decent and respectful human being and what you have taught me will stay with me until I die. It is part of who I am. I've listened to what you have to say, but I have to tell you that I'm determined to be who I am. I'm sorry if it pains you, but I'm not going to deny myself just to please you. I don't mean that to sound harsh and maybe I am selfish. But I know who I am and to deny that would be to deny what you have taught me." I looked up at my father, "Dad you always told me to be respectful of others' opinions but to have the courage of my own convictions and to stand up for them. I'm going to have to do that now and ask you to respect my opinions and my decision. I don't mean to sound stubborn, but there is nothing you can say that will change my mind on this. I know that this doesn't mean that everything is fine and rosy, but what I want to know is - how can we move on from here?" I paused and softly repeated the words I had said several times already that afternoon, "This is me."

My father sighed and slowly walked out of the room. I heard the front door close and he walked down the front path. Claire jumped to her feet, "I'm going to go walk with him."

"Are you sure that's wise honey?" Mum asked.

Claire shrugged, "I don't know, but we have to sort ourselves out somehow." She exited and ran after him. Mum and I sat there, her arm around my shoulder. I murmured, "I'm sorry Mum."

She sighed, "Darling, in most things you take after me, but in one thing you take after your father - stubbornness. Your mind is made up on this isn't it?"

I nodded, "Yes, it is."

She nodded, "I can see that. I don't approve and I'm not sure I ever will. But you are my child and I love you. That will not change. This is your family home and no matter what anyone ever says, you will always be welcome here. I don't know how we are going to go on from here."

We sat in silence for several minutes before I spoke again, "I'm bushed Mum, can I unpack and have a bit of a rest?"

"Sure honey," she replied.

I stood, stretched and then hesitated, "And you and Dad can, well, talk when he gets back. Talk about where we go from here Mum because this is me from now on."

She looked up at me imploringly, "Won't you think about this Nick? Reconsider? Give it a little more thought?"

I shook my head, "Mum I'm sorry, I've worked my through this over the last few weeks and I'm certain about this. Think about it, do you think there is any way I'd show up here today like this if I wasn't certain?"

I think that struck a chord with her as the implication of my words sunk in. She sighed and slowly nodded, "I guess not."

I picked up my bag and headed for the door. Before I left the room, she called out, "Nick?"

I turned, "Yes?"

"Don't get me wrong honey, I'm not saying I approve. But well...you look...very pretty."

I smiled, "Thanks Mum." I left quickly before I burst into tears again. I went upstairs into my room, dumped my bag on the floor and looked at myself in the mirror. "You look a mess," I murmured to myself. I slipped my boots off and lay down on the bed. I was sure that my mind would be spinning too much to really rest. But I think I was asleep before it had completed even one revolution.
 

*          *          *
 
When I awoke, it was dark in the room and I was mildly disorientated for a few moments. I realised where I was and the events of the day came flooding back into my mind. I sat up, stretched and switched on the bedside lamp. I winced as the light hurt my sensitive sleepy eyes. I checked the bedside clock, it was a quarter to five. Closing the curtains, I sat down at the dressing table and grimaced at the clown-like makeup-streaked visage that looked back at me. I did some unpacking and set to repairing my face. When I was satisfied, and after making my hair look more presentable, I decided to go back downstairs. As much as I wanted to hide in my room and hope the world would right itself without me, I knew I had to go back for round two.

I descended the stairs slowly and heard voices coming from the kitchen. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I paused and listened. I heard my father sounding exasperated, "Honestly Esther are you saying we should accept this? I really can't believe that."

She replied, "No Bill, I'm not saying that I'm accepting it. All I'm saying is that I don't think Nick is going to change his mind no matter what we do or say. You know what he is like when he gets an idea into his head."

My sister interjected, "I think she's right Dad."

"You keep out of it miss," my father replied with irritation in his voice, "I just can't believe that my only son is walking around like a fairy."

That was it. I couldn't help myself. I strode forwards and pushed open the door a little more forcefully than I really intended. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at me. I didn't care. I looked at my father. "Walking around like a fairy? Is that what you think Dad? Well let me make myself clear in case the message didn't get across earlier. You don't have a son. So your son can't walk around like a fairy. I am a woman and if you would open your eyes and look at me surely even you would have to admit that."

He fixed his eyes on me and his infuriatingly measured tone replied, "Don't take that tone of voice with me young la....young man." We all knew what he had been about to say. It was an often heard phrase in our house in days gone by when Dad and Claire were having a confrontation over something or other. Usually the latest party or boyfriend or the like. I was thankful that the seriousness of the situation prevented me from having any desire to smirk. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Claire giving in to such desire until my mother tapped her on the hand and almost imperceptibly shook her head. I don't think my father noticed though, he was focussed totally on me as he continued, "I have a son, and that is you Nicholas James Evans. And why my son feels he has to dress up like some sissy or other is totally beyond me."

I bristled. "You do NOT have a son any longer. You have a daughter. I am Nicola..." quick thinking, "Nicola Jane Evans. I am your daughter, I am a woman. Look at me. No seriously really look at me. Do I look like a man by any stretch of the imagination?"

He looked at me long and hard. "That's exactly it. You look nothing like a man at all. A real man wouldn't be caught dead looking and acting like you are."

I paused and let the words be heard. I simply nodded and softly said, "My point exactly."

His shoulders fell a little and suddenly I realised that my father looked old. I mean yes I knew he was nearly sixty, but you never think of your parents as old. Suddenly I felt a pang of guilt, I felt remorse. Not for what I was doing, but for the difficulties it was causing my parents. Instinctively I walked over to my father and hugged him. His body tensed and I don't think he knew what to do. Eventually he just sort of patted my back gently. I broke the hug and stepped back a little. In a soft voice I apologised, "I'm sorry Dad. I really don't want to hurt you and Mum or anyone else. But I have to be true to myself. As much as you may hate me for it, I have to do this."

He looked at me with an intensity I have rarely seen and with a little tremor in his voice replied, "Don't ever ever say that. I do not and will not ever hate a child of mine no matter what they do. A parent's love is unconditional love. Nick, I know I don't often say it, but I will say this now so that there is no doubt. I love you son, and that will not change."

I nodded, "I'm sorry Dad. I shouldn't have said that."

There was an awkward pause which my ever sensitive mother stepped in to end, "Why don't you both sit down at the table here with Claire and me and I'll brew a fresh pot of tea and we can talk more."

I wanted to run, I wanted to get away, I wanted to be anywhere but here. But I knew that here was where I had to be. We had to do this. We sat with our mugs of tea and I didn't know what we were going to say. My father didn't look like he was going to add anything more for the moment and Claire was wisely keeping silent. She gently squeezed my knee under the table though. It was left to my mother to get the ball rolling again. She cleared her throat and spoke, "Alright. We have to sort some things out. Nick, I believe you are serious about what you are doing and you seem to have little intention of reconsidering. I can't claim to understand and won't pretend to like it, you know our feelings but you are an adult and we have to respect your decision. Isn't that right Bill?"

My father looked at her without speaking and she prompted, "Bill?"

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Yes." He didn't look at all happy though.

My mother looked back to me, "Nick I want you to accept our strong feelings on this matter and I want you to acknowledge that you understand how opposed we are to this."

I swallowed and nodded, "OK, I understand. I accept your position."

She nodded, "Now what do you want from us?"

I thought for a moment and picked my words carefully, "I want you to call me Nicola, refer to me as she and her. I want you to call me your daughter." I paused, but I knew I had to say more, "But I don't want you to talk about me as your son who is having a sex change or anything like that."

Both my parents pricked up their antennae at that one as I knew they would. My mother was now acting as spokesperson, "Why? Are you ashamed of what you are doing?"

I shook my head, "Not at all. It is complicated and I am going to leave that until tomorrow to explain. What about the other things I said?"

My mother looked at my father and he shrugged as if to say 'what the heck'. She looked back at me, "Understand, we are doing this not because we condone what you are doing or accept it in the slightest. We will call you Nicola and refer to you as you have requested out of respect for you and your choices. I am sure we are going to get it wrong without thinking at times though and you will have to accept that."

I nodded, "Thanks Mum, thanks Dad." My father wouldn't look at me.

"Now I want all of you out of my kitchen as I'm going to make some dinner for us all. And we are going to sit down to dinner as a family and enjoy it."

I doubted the latter and I'm sure my father did too. But we all knew better than to argue with my mother on this point. My father headed to his study and Claire and I went into the living room. I flopped down on the sofa and Claire sat down beside me. She flicked on the TV and we sat and watched it in silence for several minutes. 'Miracle on 34th street.' Typical Christmas mushy film where everything ended happily. Cynically and inwardly I snorted to myself.

"You OK?" Claire murmured quietly.

I nodded, "I guess."

"It's rough," she stated.

"Yes. How could it be anything other?" I paused, "Do you think the worst is over?"

She shrugged, "I don't know. Probably not, to be honest."

I nodded and sighed, "You're probably right."

We watched on in silence until my mother called us all back into the kitchen for dinner. We sat and ate and my mother conducted the conversation. She asked Claire about her job and Claire talked. Claire asked Dad about his work and he replied. I was grateful not to be the centre of attention for a little while. The conversation was sort of forced. As if we were all pretending everything was normal.

Mum and I ended up doing the washing up and Claire and Dad went back into the living room. "Nic-ola," she began tentatively.

"Yes Mum?" I replied with my arms up to my elbows in soapy suds.

"I was just wondering what you thought we should do about Boxing Day. I mean tomorrow, Christmas Day, it's just us as usual."

Boxing Day was a family tradition where Mum hosted our relatives. Mum had a brother and a sister. Uncle George was unmarried. Aunt Vera and Uncle Keith and our two cousins Phil and Dawn were coming as far as I knew. And on Dad's side there was his sister Aunt Olivia married to Uncle Edward. They had a son Ian who was living and working in Australia.

"Who all is coming?" I asked.

"Well the usual. Vera, Keith and the kids. George should be here and Olivia and Edward will be too."

I nodded, "Sounds fine."

"Erm, but, what about with, well you..." her voice trailed off.

I turned and smiled at her, "Mum, I am who I am. This is me and I guess they deserve the opportunity to meet the new me."

She looked at me unsurely and nodded slowly, "Alright dear, if you are sure."

I knew what she was thinking and spoke gently, "Mum, I know you are thinking that perhaps if you keep this under wraps for a while, I'll get over this fad or whatever and no-one will need to know. It's not like that. They need to know because this is the way it's going to be."

She sighed and nodded, "Alright Nicola. But I'm not sure how they will all react."

I wasn't sure either. Claire and I were pretty close to Phil and Dawn. They were non-identical twins and just over a year younger than me. Dawn was studying maths at Nottingham University and Phil was on an electronic engineering course at Aberystwyth University. Phil and I always got on very well. I figured they'd be shocked but probably accept it better than the 'grown ups'. George probably wouldn't care. He was a bachelor, an investment broker and if it didn't affect his portfolio, it wouldn't fuss him. My other aunts and uncles were fairly traditional and quite similar in outlook to my own parents. I imagined they would be definitely shocked, probably disapproving but more than anything glad it wasn't one of their children causing such an outrage. I didn't really care. They had to know and I was going to have to talk to them carefully about what they said about me. I sighed as I helped Mum put the last of the saucepans away. It felt like the world was resting on my shoulders. It was a far cry from the happy, free days at Silsbury Manor. Yet I knew what I was doing was right.

Mum and I went into the living room and I made my apologies about being tired and going to get an early night. Claire smiled and got up to give me a little hug. Dad barely acknowledged my departure.

I wasn't pretending. I was truly exhausted and I don't think I was ever so glad to fall into bed as I was then. In the precious few seconds before I went to sleep, I remembered back to Christmas Eve's when I was much younger and how hard it was to get to sleep with the anticipation and the excitement. It wasn't a problem this year.
 

*          *          *
 
As I had gone to bed in good time the night before, I woke around 7 a.m. feeling quite refreshed. I had a clear head and sat on the edge of the bed and felt pretty good. That is until I remembered the stress and trials of the previous day. Today was Christmas Day. Peace and goodwill to all men - except those men who are perverting nature by turning into women. I shook my head and tried to clear it of such cynicism as it was unlikely to help the situation or make the next few days any easier. I peeped through my curtains and the weather certainly seemed to match my mood. It was dark and pouring down out of the heavens. Nonetheless, I decided to brave the elements and go for a run. That's the thing about a habit: unless you come up with a good reason not to do it, it sort of comes automatically. Which is fine if it is a good habit. I pulled on my tracksuit and running shoes, scraped my hair back into a ponytail, added a baseball cap and quietly crept down the stairs to let myself out the front door.

The day outside was no better in reality compared to how it had appeared from the comfort of my cosy bedroom. The driving wind blasted the icy raindrops into my face as I set off running down the street. It was truly miserable. I loved it. It was wild and the untamed elements of nature gave me a certain feeling of freedom. I funnelled all the negative energy and feelings from the previous day into adrenaline-charged exercise. The harder the wind blew, the faster I ran. Needless to say, I had the roads to myself. There were a few lights on in the houses I ran past. No doubt young kids pulling their parents out of bed to see what Santa had left them. I sort of envied their innocence and wide-eyed awe of youth.

After about 15 minutes I turned around and now the wind was at my back. It was exhilarating. I ran faster and faster and felt like I was going to take off. I arrived back outside my parents' house and sat on the doorstep in the biting wind and rain as I gasped for breath. Although my chest felt raw and my muscles were aching from overdoing it, the post-exercise endorphin haze soon replaced the discomfort. I slipped back inside the house and thought I would get a drink of water from the kitchen before hitting the shower.

"Oh my goodness!" I exclaimed as I opened the kitchen door to find myself face to face with my mother. "You scared me!" I accused.

She looked equally as startled and replied, "Well you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing up so early." She noticed that I was dripping and immediately switched into concerned mother mode, "Nick...Nicola...you are soaking wet? What have you been doing? Have you been outside? Are you alright?"

I laughed and held up my hands, "I'm OK. I was just out for a run."

"A run?" she said incredulously, "You? Running? On Christmas Day? And on a morning like that? Are you ill?"

She looked at me as if she certainly thought I was deranged. I grinned and shrugged, "It's a pattern I've got into. I know I was a bit of a lazy slob before, but things are different now. I'm really quite fit."

She nodded and looked me up and down. My wet tracksuit was clinging to my figure. With a hint of a sigh she said, "Yes so I can see, you've got quite a figure."

I blushed a little and didn't quite know what to say. "Uhh thanks Mum. And why are you up so early?"

She shrugged, "Well someone has to get the turkey into the oven." She paused, "Plus I didn't sleep too well and woke very early."

I nodded and winced a little, "Sorry Mum. My fault I guess."

She waved a hand at me, "Now sit down with me for a moment and have a quick cup of tea with me before you go and get changed."

I did as she told me and was grateful for the warmth afforded by the hot cup of tea. My mother sat across the table from me and I became aware that she was staring intently at me. I met her gaze, "What is it?"

She looked away and shook her head. "Oh I don't know. You just look so different." She stopped talking and seemed to be very interested in looking at the contents of her mug.

I probed gently, "In what way different."

For a moment it was as if she hadn't heard me as she didn't reply. Then after another sip of her tea she looked at me again, "It pains me to say it, but you look really well. You look radiant. Better fed and healthier than you have appeared in a long time." She paused, "And as I said yesterday, you do look very pretty." Another hesitation and then with a kind of wistful angst, "When I look at you, it's as if I'm looking at myself 30 years ago."

I only realised it then, but she was right. My sister Claire had my father's high forehead and prominent nose and it was always said that she looked like my father. But me? I had never thought that I particularly resembled either of my parents. Now though I bore a striking resemblance to my mother. Her now greying hair had in her younger days been full-bodied, glossy black - just like mine. Facially, there would be no mistaking us for mother and daughter.

I spoke hesitantly, "I know this must be hard for you Mum."

She sighed, "I don't know what to think. When I look at you, you look so much like my daughter...but...I miss my son...my little boy."

I could see moisture gathering in her eyes. I swallowed hard to prevent myself from succumbing to a similar fate. I replied quietly, "I know. It's still strange to me. But give me a chance. You'll get used to it, no?"

She wiped her eyes and regained control, "I don't know." She smiled wanly, "Darling, your father and I were talking last night..."

I sighed and tried to interrupt, "Mum, we've been through all..."

She cut me off, "Now hear me out. We were talking and we felt that if you were intent on doing...'this', well we think you should talk to a doctor about it."

I nodded, "Mum, I have seen a doctor about it."

She look taken aback, "You have?" I nodded and she went on, "Well, what sort of doctor?"

"She's an endocrinologist who has a specialist interest in gender dysphoria."

She blinked a few times, "And well, did she talk about whether you should be doing all this or is she just accepting it all?"

"She interviewed me thoroughly. Really detailed. All about my past, my thoughts, feelings, everything."

"And?" my mother asked.

I shrugged, "She feels that the path I'm pursuing is correct."

My mother's shoulders sagged. She looked at me, "Nick...Nicola, tell me, are you on, I mean are you taking..."

I knew what she was asking, "Am I taking hormones? Yes Mum I am."

She visibly paled, "And have they had any effect?"

I nodded and replied matter-of-factly, "Yes they have."

She bit her lip and we sat in silence for a few minutes. She looked me in the eye again, "Have you, or are you...well thinking about," she screwed her face up, "...surgery?"

I ran a hand through my wet hair and sighed, "Mum I don't know yet. It might be something I think about, it probably will be. But just not yet."

She didn't look too reassured. I shivered, "I think I had better go and get showered. I'm wet and cold."

She nodded absentmindedly and remained seated there as I got up and left. As I went up the stairs I let out a long, slow breath. The day was likely to have more difficult conversations and I knew I still had to tell them about Cara Malone and her plans. But for a few moments at least, the piping hot water of the shower was a welcome distraction.
 

*          *          *
 
I had dressed in my conservative grey jacket and below-knee skirt with a simple white blouse. A little subtle make up and flat black court shoes. I thought that the others were probably up out of bed now as there was more noise about the house. I went down for breakfast and found the three of them seated around the kitchen table. Predictably the conversation stopped as soon as I entered the room. I pretended not to notice and forced myself to smile, "Morning Dad, Claire." I sat down in the remaining chair and poured myself a bowl of muesli. Claire was in her dressing gown and she looked me up and down, "You're dressed up pretty smart today. What's the occasion?"

With my spoon of cereal halfway to my mouth, I shrugged and replied, "It's Christmas Day, don't we always go to Church on Christmas Day?"

Claire raised her eyebrows and I knew what she was thinking, but she tactfully didn't say anything. She knew she didn't have to as my father found his voice.

He looked at me over his glasses, "You are planning on going to Church?"

I nodded as I munched, "Yes."

"Like that?" he asked.

"Like what?" I retorted.

He gestured to me, "Well dressed...like that."

I looked down at myself, "What's wrong with my outfit? Is it not suitable for Church?"

He looked at me through narrowed eyes, "You know what I mean."

Unfortunately for my father, I was a product of my upbringing and knew all the right phrases and lines to say. I set my spoon down, "Dad, surely you are not saying that I wouldn't be welcome at Church? Would you have them turn me away? I wouldn't have thought that you would bar anyone from coming into the house of God to worship."

My father looked away and winced a little. I knew I had him and I felt slightly guilty but I knew I had to make my point. He sighed and looked back at me, "Do you think it is appropriate for you to come into the presence of God living this lie of yours? This mockery and charade?"

I made myself look shocked, "So you are saying that liars and sinners are not welcome in Church? But Dad, you always taught us that we don't come to God in our own righteousness. Didn't the Lord come to save the sinners not the righteous? And surely although man looks on the outward appearance, God looks on the heart."

Claire couldn't resist making the comment, she giggled, "Oh and 'Man' will certainly be taking a good long look at the outward appearance."

My father shot Claire a warning glance and my mother remonstrated, "Claire, please - you are not helping."

I tried not to smile. I didn't want to appear cheeky. My father knew he was beaten, "Alright. Fine. Come to Church then. But pray tell, what are we going to say about you? What do we tell people?"

I shrugged, "I've never been to your Church before; introduce them to your daughter. I mean you've only moved to this Church a month or two ago so how many people think you have a son?"

My parents looked at each other and Mum shrugged. Dad looked like he was thinking hard before he replied, "Alright, certainly we haven't got to know anyone too well, but I'm sure we may have told some people that we have a daughter and a son."

I nodded, "I doubt they'll remember and when they meet Claire and me, they'll imagine they took you up wrong."

I knew what was coming, as my father saw his opening, "Oh so you want us to lie do you?"

I was ready for this, "Not at all. Introducing me as your daughter will be the truth. That's who I am. Truth and reality are more than genes, molecules and body organs."

There was silence for a few moments as we continued to eat our breakfast. My mother looked at my father and murmured, "Bill, what will we do?"

He grimaced, "I don't know. What choice do we have? Looking at..." he hesitated and with some resignation continued, "...looking at...her...there's no way we can say...she...is anything other than our daughter."

We all stared at my father. I sensed that this was an important moment. Almost imperceptibly something had changed. It wasn't that suddenly I was accepted or that what I was doing was welcomed. But it was more like a resignation on my father's part that this was happening. An acknowledgement of what I was doing. I didn't kid myself that things were all warm and fuzzy now. Not by a long shot. But, slow as it may be, I felt this was progress.

I smiled at my parents and softly and humbly, without any trace of anything that could be construed as gloating, simply said, "Thanks Dad, thanks Mum. I know this must be very hard for you."
 

*          *          *
 
Llandaff North Methodist Church was a 5 minute drive from my parents' home and we all travelled in their car. As we walked into the Church, we were greeted at the door, by a cheery red-faced man. "Merry Christmas Bill and Esther," he looked at Claire and me, "I presume these are your lovely daughters?"

My Dad looked a little awkward, "Uhh yes, yes they are. This is Claire, and this is...Nicola. Umm girls, this is Mervyn Stewart."

He shook our hands enthusiastically, "Pleased to meet you girls." He turned to my parents, "You have two beautiful daughters, and I guess you're delighted to have the family home for Christmas?"

My mother sensed that my father was floundering a little and stepped in, "Of course Mervyn, it wouldn't be Christmas without them." We went on in and sat down. A few other people from the Church came up and chatted to Mum and Dad and there were more introductions. I don't think my father found it easy, but I hoped that each time he called me his daughter or referred to me as Nicola, it would get a little easier.

The service was short and simple. A series of Bible readings interspersed with traditional carols. I think my mother was a little worried as the first carol started. She nudged me and whispered, "Are you sure you should sing? Can you sing, you know...as a girl?" Claire heard this also and stifled a little giggle which drew a frown from my mother. I simply smiled and assured her it would be alright. I think she was shocked when she actually heard me sing. I had always loved Christmas carols, they were uplifting, inspiring and I actually found it quite an emotional experience. One of the things I had always particularly enjoyed about Christmas carols was the descant versions. Wonderful wide-ranging harmonies. Of course, until now I was only ever able to listen to them. This time I could join in the singing of them. As I revelled in the glorious melody of the descant to 'O come all ye faithful', I became aware of my father looking at me. I glanced at him with a little uncertainty as I continued to sing. He looked puzzled, but didn't actually look disapproving at this moment. I smiled and he sort of half returned the smile before looking back to his hymn sheet.

At the end of the service we dutifully filed out of the church towards the front door where the minister shook each person's hand. It came to my parents' turn and he smiled as he shook their hands, "Bill, Esther - great to see you, have a great Christmas. And are these two young ladies with you?"

My father smiled a nervous looking smile, "Err yes, these are...my two daughters. Reverend Patterson, meet Claire and...Nicola."

He smiled and shook our hands, "Delighted to meet you Claire and Nicola." He then frowned a little and turned back to my father, "You know I have the strangest recollection that you told me you had a son and a daughter."

My heart almost stopped and I just about heard a very soft sharp intake of breath from Claire behind me. My mother seemed to stiffen a little and all of our eyes focussed on my father. He paused for a moment and frowned. My heart was in my mouth as I waited for him to reply. He shrugged and shook his head, "Well unless your eyes are deceiving you, I've got two beautiful daughters."

Reverend Patterson paused for a moment then smiled as he looked at us, "There's no denying that." He shook his head and rolled his eyes, "I guess I'm starting to lose it."

My father laughed a little and we all headed out to the car park. I walked alongside my father. "Thanks Dad," I murmured as I looked up at him. He looked down at me and gave a faint smile, "I just told the truth. He just didn't realise that his eyes were deceiving him."

I grinned, "Perhaps. But thanks anyway."
 

*          *          *
 
When we got home, there was a lot of bustling to get Christmas dinner ready. Normally Mum and Claire would work together to serve it whilst Dad and I chatted in the living room. This year it was different though. My mother called me into the kitchen and gave me various jobs to do. I rationalised that it was more likely she was trying to occupy me and prevent me and my father having a conversation together that would spoil our dinner, than the possibility that she was treating me more like a daughter than a son. Either way, I was happy enough to help.

Christmas dinner was actually quite enjoyable. The food was bountiful and delicious. I actually wished I had had the foresight to remove my corset before dinner as I was restricted in the amount I was able to eat. This was probably a good thing though. I had a picture of Beth in my mind waggling a finger and chiding me for trying to undo all the good work we had done together. The conversation wasn't too awkward or stilted and I actually felt comfortable enough to take part.

"The service was really moving, wasn't it?" I said.

My father nodded, "It was. Simple and straightforward - just the way I like it. The word - in scripture and in song." He paused and then looked back at me, "Where did you learn to sing like that?"

I shrugged, "Sing like what? I'm a singer remember?"

He looked at me ponderously then gently shook his head, and in a strange tone which was a mixture of reticence and something approaching pride he said, "You sounded like an angel."

An awkward pause followed and I knew I was blushing, "Umm thanks Dad."

We all chatted away over the rest of dinner and dessert. We laughed as we shared reminiscences of previous Christmases when we were young. For the first time since coming to face my parents, I actually felt glad to be home. I had been dreading these days for the last number of weeks. I realised the real meaning of the phrase that blood is thicker than water. No matter the difficulties, no matter the trials, if a family is a good family then it deals with them. I knew that it was right that I had come to face them and share with them what I was doing. I also knew that I had to tell them more.

Once the dishes were all safely stowed in the dishwasher and everything else cleared away, we sat down for the traditional 3 o'clock Queen's speech to the Commonwealth. When it was finished, we unanimously decided that we did not want to watch the umpteenth showing of 'The Great Escape' so the television was turned off. After a few moments silence, I cleared my throat and spoke, "Umm, Mum and Dad. I've a few other things to tell you..."

My father chose this moment to display one of his rare flashes of dry humour, "Oh my goodness, may the Lord preserve me, what more can he...err...she...say to make her poor father lose the rest of his already thinning hair."

We laughed, and I tried again. "Well, I think this won't be too much in comparison to what I've already laid on you."

Claire butted in, "I don't know about you, but I can't think of anything at all in the world that would be a bigger deal than what you've already hit us with."

I stuck my tongue out at her and she replied in kind. My mother sighed, "Girls! That was not the way you were brought up." She realised how reflexively she had just addressed us and looked a bit shocked at this herself.

Third time lucky, "No seriously, let me speak." I looked around and I had their undivided attention. "I wanted to fill you in on what I plan to do from here on."

My father looked puzzled, "In what regard?"

"With regards to like you know, a job."

He raised a hand to his chest, "What? A job? Esther do you hear that? I have just about got over the shock that she's turning into a woman - but getting a job? This is too much."

I sighed, "What has got into you all today? Did someone spike the apple juice at lunchtime or something? Now enough! Quiet and listen, this is important." I looked around, daring anyone to make a wisecrack. No-one did. "Well, I know you've all thought I was wasting my time with my music and you all thought I should get a 'proper job'."

My mother tried to interrupt, "No dear, it's not like..."

"Shush!" I said imperiously raising a hand before continuing, "I know what you all thought. But I don't mind. Because, I have some good news. You are looking at the latest singer/songwriter to be signed up for a record deal with Sony music."

I smiled and looked around as that sunk in. I could see my mother and father processing this. I knew what was coming. My mother spoke first, "Well, that's great dear. But tell me, who is it that has got the deal, if you know what I mean."

I nodded, "Well actually it's Cara Malone who has got the deal."

"Cara who?" my father asked.

"Cara Malone," I repeated, "That's going to be my sort of stage name if you follow me. Nicola Evans is a lovely name, but it's not got quite the right ring to it."

My mother spoke slowly, "You've got a record deal as a woman. How come? You've been trying to get a deal for years and years with no luck. Now you are a woman and suddenly you get a deal? Why?"

Claire piped up, "Show them Nicola, or Cara. I think that's the easiest way."

I nodded slowly, "Yes, you're probably right for once sister of mine."

She gave me a mock scowl which I ignored as I got up and walked over to the upright piano in the corner of the living room. As I sat down, I lifted the lid and let my hand fondly stroke the sun-faded wood. This had been the piano that I had learnt to play on as a child and anytime I played it, I was always overcome with a rush of nostalgia. It was slightly out of tune and far from having a good action, but to be honest when I played it, it felt better to me than a Steinway - well almost. I gathered myself and launched into 'I just wanna be me.'
 
 

"Feelin' the weight of others' expectations,  Pushing me down, pressing around me,  Building into disappointments,  anger and frustrations,  Why oh why can't they understand and see?      I don't wanna be somebody elses' puppet,  Don't wanna have to say yes and always agree,  You're squeezing me, smothering me  - why don't you just stop it Cos I just wanna be me.      I'm dreamin' my own dreams,  not fulfilling yours,  I'm throwing off the bonds,  I'm gonna be free,  I'm releasing my true spirit,  a spirit that endures Cos I just wanna be me."

 
 
I finished playing and swivelled round on the piano stool to face them. I felt strangely nervous. Like a child who has played their first recital and needs to seek their parents' praise. My mother raised an eyebrow, "Well I guess that answers my question. My musical tastes are quite different to yours, but I think I can appreciate the difference between what I've just heard and what I've heard in the past."

I smiled shyly and returned to my seat. I looked over at my father, "Dad? What did you think?"

He sighed and replied hesitantly, "There is no denying that you are exceptionally talented. I'm sure that the people who signed you recognised that and combining that with how you look, I imagine you are just what they are looking for."

I reckoned that was as close to open praise from my father as I was going to get right now. But I needed to tell them more, so I went on, "If you think about it, if I'm going to pursue a career as Cara Malone, it's fine if people think Cara Malone used to be Nicola Evans. It's not so good for reputation and sales if people find out Cara Malone used to be Nicholas Evans."

My mother interjected, "The people at Sony have no idea about this then."

"No," I replied, "In fact, the only people who know outside of this room are my doctor, Julie Carstairs and her sister Beth."

My father wrinkled his brow, "How on earth have you kept this a secret? It's just, as I look at you now, I doubt you've been able to hide the changes you've been going through."

Just as I had had to do with Claire, I talked them through the previous weeks and all the preparations before leaving London and then how we moved down to Silsbury Manor. I completely omitted anything about the dancing classes and Paul. I shared a knowing look with Claire and I think she understood that it was not to be mentioned as she gave me a surreptitious little nod. In the way that I told it, I skewed the emphasis though to make it seem as if I had begun my journey into womanhood before I discovered my new singing ability with the potential opportunities it offered. I did feel a twinge of guilt about this, but as I had readjusted my own priorities in my mind over the last few weeks, I rationalised my guilt away. I did my best to answer the various questions my parents asked. There was a change in the emphasis of our discussions now. Whereas yesterday things had been confrontational, today it was more of resigned acceptance and the seeking of more information. I knew that deep down they still did not approve, but at least they seemed to have stopped trying to talk me out of it.
 

*          *          *
 
"Oh my goodness!" Claire exclaimed.

"What?" said three voices in almost unison.

"I don't believe it!" she said, "With all this talking, we've forgotten the real centre of Christmas - the giving of presents."

My mother tutted disapprovingly at her, but we all knew Claire was just being facetious. She was right though. We had forgotten. So without further ado, we all got up and extracted our various presents from where we had stashed them and we reassembled in the living room. I gave mine out first. I'd bought Claire a white silk blouse and a long black cashmere cardigan. She whooped with delight, "I've often wondered what it would be like to have a sister who could buy me tasteful presents like this. Why did you never buy me things like this before?" She held the blouse up to the mirror and nodded appreciatively.

I laughed, "I guess I didn't have the appreciation of female clothing that I've recently developed. Now Mum, this is for you."

She opened her present, and murmured, "Oh darling, it's beautiful." It was a hand-crafted wooden jewellery box. "I'm very impressed," she said.

I shrugged, "To be honest, I did have help picking your presents. Jools and Beth helped me out. Now Dad, for you."

He gave me a half-smile as he took it from me. I had got him a CD of Charles Wesley's most famous Methodist hymns and a book about the history of the South Wales mining industry. Now that may not sound particularly exciting, but I knew my father and his less-than-mainstream interests well. "Thank you, thank you," he said as he looked at the book with interest. Claire gave her presents out next. She had got the latest Delia Smith cookery book for my mother and some expensive moisturiser cream. Both were well received. A shirt and tie set met with approval from my father. My turn. She grinned at me as she handed me my present. I eagerly ripped the paper off.

"Oh great - thanks Claire," I said sincerely, "excellent!" She had got me the U2 Elevation concert on DVD and the new Avril Lavigne CD. My sister knew me well. Buy music related presents and you were bound to score highly in my books. She also knew my music tastes well. I had been a huge U2 fan for several years. The Avril Lavigne CD was an inspired choice. I had been thinking of getting it as the rocky almost-punk style of the singles I had heard so far had appealed to me.

My mother gave Claire her present. It was a smart black jacket with matching skirt. "Great," said Claire, "I was needing something fresh for work, this is lovely."

As my mother handed me her present, she suddenly raised her hand to her mouth, "Oh dear."

I tentatively took the present from her and asked, "What is it?"

She sighed, "Well I've just remembered what I've bought you and to be honest, I'm not sure it's quite appropriate now. Maybe you should give it back, and I'll get you something else dear."

I was intrigued now, "Let me be the judge of that." I opened it up and inside was a casual checked shirt and a smart pair of black denim jeans. Very nice, but it was male clothing. "Ahh," I murmured, "I think I see what you mean. They are very nice though, thanks." My parents usually bought me clothes as presents. Mum was always giving off about how worn and scruffy my clothes looked. I never really spent much time or money on buying clothes. Well, I never used to until now that is.

My mother looked at me, "You're not really going to wear them are you?"

I winced and shrugged, "Well, no I don't think so."

She nodded, "I understand. Look give them back to me, I've got the receipt and I'll leave them back, I got them from Next - I'll get you a credit voucher to spend on whatever you want to buy."

I smiled apologetically, "Thanks Mum."

---