I know it's always been a hard time for you. I'm cooking in the kitchen, tired. I've been up since three a.m., making the downstairs the most comfy and cozy place ever.

Of course, I don't know what it feels like to have dysphoria, I don't know how to help him. So, I cook his favorite meal, crepes, and I have a heating pad set up.

I yawn as he comes down, sniffling and holding his baby Blue blanket.

"Hey honey," I whisper in the most gentle tone I can muster. "I made crepes." I smile gently.