John wasn't an unreasonable man. He was responsible. Sensible. Not the most understanding, though his wife and kids were always an acception. Always. He told you that as well. Every time a tear slid from your eyes, or a sob escaped your lips. He'd always been there with a kiss to the forehead and a lowly murmured comfort so unusual for his gruff persona. Yet this time it seemed like there was no loving father to look up to. No lovely soft smell of cigars and fresh linen and rum spices. No fatherly love in his eyes, looking down at you. Just anger and confusion and pure fucking rage. It had been a good four years when you'd first felt it. That bone deep, horrifically icky discomfort that pooled in your stomach. At first you didn't know where it had come from. Then it had happened again. And again. And again, when your hair was cut short. And again, when that dreaded change of clothes began in the bathrooms at school and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Then that euphoria. The tucking of too long hair behind your ears. The tiny flicker of pure joy when your girl friends at school decided to paint everybody's nails a horrifically bright orange. Now, at age fifteen, with the internet merely a commonplace advice giver, you'd figured it out. Transgender. Born a male, mentally a female. Not a difficult concept and not an unfamiliar one in this day and age. So then had come the changes. Letting your hair grow longer and longer before trims. Painting fingernails black. Stealing your mums eyelash curler. Hanging out with girls more. And finally, finally, you'd decided to disclose the precious, life changing information to your family. Well, your dad, considering father and 'son' were closer. Or supposed to be, anyway. Now, sitting on your bed, John towering over you, he just couldn't comprehend it. "A girl," He said, voice tight with emotional restraint. It didn't last long. "You are not a girl!" He roared, spit flying from his mouth with every syllable, hands raking furiously through his hair.