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 the skirts of your dress swished around your thighs. 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 shagginess of short short pixie cuts. The tiny flicker of pure joy when your boy friends at school decided to include your in their little weekly casual soccer games. Now, at age fifteen, with the internet merely a commonplace advice giver, you'd figured it out. Transgender. Female to male Not a difficult concept and not an unfamiliar one in this day and age. So then had come the changes. Cutting your hair to a pixie cut. Stealing your brothers clothes with the excuse of 'mine was in the laundry'. Stealing your dads deodorant. 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 boy," He said, voice tight with emotional restraint. It didn't last long. "You are not a boy!" He roared, spit flying from his mouth with every syllable, hands raking furiously through his hair.