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an unmoored mess. The plan to continue being a man would never succeed. He looked left one last time and on impulse, pulled out. The actions he had to take were clear. The Lexus was sturdy. Great air bag. Firm seat belt. The truck wasn’t moving fast. He would survive. Be very banged up, probably. But he would survive. I would find the “suicide” note in my coat and tell y’all that he was a woman. You and Grandma and Granddad and the law firm would be so relieved he was alive, y’all would forgive anything. You would stay with him.
    I really don’t think he meant to die—and maybe he won’t, who knows. The wreck was a cry for attention, and I wish I had told you way back when that Dad was transgender. The wreck could have been avoided. All this could have been avoided.
    Whatever happens, you can do so much better than Dad. I should have encouraged her to leave you from the start, when you were two months pregnant, because you do deserve much, much more.
    -Oliver

Chapter Seven
    Oliver lay in bed, unable to sleep. As usual. As always—since the car wreck. He had just gotten off the phone with Malcolm and Sherelle. Dinner next week at an Applebee’s in Silver Spring, the six of them: Oliver, Shannon, Malcolm, Sherelle and the children.
    Oliver had never asked Sherelle and Malcolm for alone time with the kids. Shannon had—and got permission. She’d never lost touch with Erin and Paul. They’d had Shannon, had known Shannon all their lives. Oliver was someone who disappeared when the kids were two years old, only to resurface from the morass of college, Europe and young adulthood when they were ten.
    He was a worse father than his old man.
    Oliver willed Paul Joseph and Erin Elizabeth out of his mind. He checked the supply of tissues in the Kleenex box on his nightstand and applied lotion to his hands.
    Cock time.
    Stroke squeeze stroke.
    Ahh. Yes. Oliver arched his back. Stroke stroke stroke.
    ComeonComeonComeon…
    Dad’s in a coma. Oliver saw the labyrinth on his father’s head and twisted his hand away from his cock. He took a few deep breaths, trying to clear his mind.
    Instead, Celia popped into his head. Oliver had fantasized about her several times when he jacked off. Okay, more than several times. He’d fantasized about her too during sex with Lori.
    Oliver applied more lotion to his hands. He closed his eyes and imagined Celia mounting him. Celia riding him, Celia looking down at him with that little lopsided smile. Celia purring: “I want to fuck you all night, Oliver.”
    Celia’s breasts. Breasts Oliver had actually witnessed. Who cared if the nipples were extra big? That was temporary, and even if it wasn’t temporary, Celia was so—she was Celia.
    Strokesqueezesqueezestrokestroke
    Furious rubbing.
    Oliver grabbed a tissue. There it was. The proof of his XYness. Maybe now he could sleep.
    *****
    Celia began practicing in front of the mirror. She would smile, more of a beam, really, and say: “Hello! How nice to see you again. I’d like you to meet Davina, my wife.”
    Wife.
    Wife.
    The word did not feel too bad on Celia’s tongue, but she was alone. If she said it to a real person…who knew.
    It felt wrong when she rocked Caleb and said: “Davina is your mother.”
    Your mother.
    Your mother.
    Davina is your mother.
    That did not feel right.
    Celia had to admit she knew next to nothing about transsexualism. She did not have transgender friends. She did know that it was easier to go from male to female because constructing a vagina and clitoris out of a penis was much simpler than making a penis out of a vagina.
    Google was her friend. Celia typed the search words “Transgender male to female.” She clicked on a few random links until she got to TSFAQ.info. One section discussed common reactions and feelings about transition, such as the transgenders’ loved ones being fearful that these people’s inner core would change, that they would become like strangers, that their body changes