McKeesport, Pennsylvania, Friday evening at the Coolidge house...

Darren stared at the computer screen. The pictures of his friends looked very pretty; many of them taken within the last few days at a conference they'd attended. Some of them had their spouses along; acceptance was not common, but not unheard of with the community online. He sighed with envy, wondering when his time would come...rather when her time would come, if at all. The big tabby jumped off the bookshelf, landing squarely on the keyboard.

“Hey, Buddy,” he said, scratching the tom’s ears, which was returned with a loud purring and claws kneading into his legs as the cat jumped onto his lap.

"I think the dog needs to go out."

An announcement that became a request as no movement was heard in the other room. He logged off quickly and hit erase history on the browser; nothing would be worse than for her to find his connections went beyond the movie and sports links she knew he frequented.

“You won’t say anything, will you?” He joked as the cat jumped back up on top of the bookshelf, disappearing behind some boxes.

Grabbing the leash from the back door coat rack, he whistled and their Airedale came trotting in from the living room. A few minutes later he came in, unhooked the dog, and hung the leash up on the back of the door.

"Would you mind getting me some wine when you get up next?"

He heard her just as he sat down at the desk again; a not so subtle hint to get up and get her a glass of wine. He didn't mind. She worked hard while he remained at home, and he seemed to function so much better in the evening than she did. He felt torn between two kinds of guilt; both almost tormenting him. He felt bad that he hadn’t found a job in nearly three years; even part-time. The burden of earning money came almost solely from Nancy, with him only contributing with an occasional temp job at the bookstore down the highway. The man in him felt weak and useless, less than the husband she married.

But part of him felt guilty about feeling guilty. He hoped one day she’d accept the other ‘half’ of him....the ‘her’ she had yet to meet. And feeling less of a husband somehow meant he was only a man, which he felt betrayed the female part of him.

He came into the living room with more than a glass of wine; a tray of cheese and crackers was greeted by,

"That's so sweet."

He kissed her on the forehead and then walked into the laundry to put a load of her things into the wash. He looked enviously at the nicely colored tops and slacks. Her cream slacks had that nice soft cut that made her look even sexier, if that were possible. He sighed before loading the machine.

"I put a load of your stuff in; you have anything else you want washed before I start it?"

"My full slip and the green corduroy dress; we've got a staff meeting, and I want to wear something other than a suit for a change." She smiled as he kissed her forehead once again before retrieving the dress from the closet door. He stared longingly at the slip lying on the bed. It was pretty, like her. He bit his lip and took the clothes back to the wash.

"How's Jimmy doing? You said he was dealing with some depression."

"I talked to him online. He's doing much better since he changed doctors. It's been hard, but he finally got somebody over there who’ll take care of him." Darren breathed a sigh as he walked into the living room. Jimmy was a friend in Indiana as far as Nancy knew; someone Darren had met on a support website for survivors. Jimmy was a survivor, but Darren knew him as Janine.

If Nancy knew learned about all of Darren's friends, she'd not only be surprised, she'd be upset; perhaps even disappointed. Maybe hurt and confused; Darren's friends online were not all survivors, but every one of them were either transgendered or the spouses or partners of transgendered folks.

Darren had been going to the website for almost two years. He had reached out in the midst of his own emotional crisis; writing stories and blogs about 'girls' seemed to help him cope with his own issues. His therapist had said as much; encouraging him to write. And it had helped.

But that's as far as it would go; at least for the time being...who could say? But it was more than likely that's as far as it would ever go, since revealing that part of himself, Darlene he had named her, would likely break her heart. Nancy had married a man, after all; she wasn't married to a woman and she wouldn't understand that her husband wanted so much to be her wife.

Monday morning....

She stared in the mirror. She didn't like her looks at all. In fact, she avoided looking in the mirror, even when she wore her favorite outfit; nice maroon suede-like dress, full skirt, with a button down collar and long sleeves. The tops of her calf-length brown boots were covered by the hem of the skirt; their two inch heels only recently having been mastered. They made her appear taller than she wanted to, but the boots also made her feel quite feminine, and feminine trumped too-tall every time.

Darlene Coolidge...maybe she would have made a great reporter or perhaps a librarian or even a doctor. But Darren Coolidge looked at himself in the mirror on one of those rare occasions when he could muster the courage. Years of every kind of abuse possible had destroyed any chance of Darlene living the life she longed for; her 'brother" barely surviving his college years after turning his back on the lure of suicide and self-destruction. Only now, decades later, were the two of them finally integrating into one whole person.

"Honey, are you home? They had a scheduling mix-up...today was my day off." Nancy called from the hallway. He panicked until she added.

"I'm going to run to the store and get something for lunch; a sandwich? How about Chinese."

Darlene took a deep breath as Darren shouted,

"Chinese sounds great. I was just about to take a shower...I'll see you when you get back."

"Okay," Nancy said and was quickly out the door once again. Darlene took one last look at herself in the mirror as her brother stared back at her; both of their eyes filling with tears. A close call that sent a very strong message...never again. She took off the dress carefully, returning it to the hanger. The undergarments were tossed unceremoniously in the delicates hamper with Nancy's other lingerie. She returned the boots to the box marked Tax Receipts and placed them under a pair of file boxes in the corner of the office. Walking back into the bathroom, she turned on the shower and stepped in, but not before looking in the mirror one last time.

Maybe in stories....a sympathetic and loving wife discovers her husband wearing women’s clothing? A crossdresser? No...He was a twenty-eight year old man stuck at fourteen when his father found him in his mother’s dress; a scar over his right eye bearing witness to a beating that drove Darlene into a permanent psychic retreat as Darren abandoned her to a sad subliminal existence. Maybe if he had started hormones at fifteen or so? Maybe surgery at nineteen or sooner? He leaned over and placed his head against the wall of the shower and began weeping. A death in the family that would be mourned by no one except her ‘brother.’

That Friday....

Darren and Nancy celebrated their sixth anniversary at the local steakhouse, dining on fine food and listening to a fairly decent jazz combo. Darren wore a green polo and tan slacks along with a brown corduroy jacket. Nancy wore a green velour dress with a black belt and a white crochetted shawl. Her legs were set off nicely with charcoal hose and black calf-length boots. Darren looked at his wife with adoring eyes; somewhat for her apparel, which evoked feelings of sadness, but oh so much more for the love of his wife; the wife of his youth as it says somewhere. And he moved on to the same life he and Nancy enjoyed, hoping against hope that things might change one day.

Next: Louise's Story