I was about to discover something about myself that I was totally blind to.

 

 

Note to readers. This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.

 

 

I could do back-to-school shopping without a dad. I was fifteen, not a kid. But back-to-school shopping is kind of extensive and dad didn't want to let me go overboard or buy something inappropriate. On one hand, I was sorta offended by the lack of his trust in me. On the other hand, I did not have to worry about expenses. For underwear and socks, I shopped at Walmart. After all, what does a teenage boy need? Jeans, tees, and shoes for fall and winter. Puberty changes had passed me by so far so my sizes were basically the same as a year before. But…

“Summer dresses are on sale,” the saleslady announced enthusiastically the moment dad and I entered the store. “Great deals for denim skirts too.”

“I'm a boy,” I sighed.

“Not this time,” dad said. He didn't like to embarrass other people. To embarrass me, his son, was rather a natural thing.

“Still in the tomboy phase?” the saleslady asked knowingly.

Dad shrugged.

I rolled my eyes.

We turned in the opposite direction from the girls' section.

With all the changing of clothes while I tried things on, it took us forty minutes. Just when I was about to leave the changing area, the saleslady was there again.

“Just give it a try,” she offered me some garment that looked like a long denim button-down shirt, “it will compliment your complexion. I can promise, you'll look beautiful in it.”

“Not…” I was about to say not interested but dad interrupted me.

“We'll try it,” he said and then turned to me. “Polly, just try it on. We don't need to buy it.”

Polly is my name. Short of Apollinarius. It's a better choice than another short form – Ape.

So I took the shirt and went back into the changing room. But it wasn't a shirt, it was a dress. A button-down shirt dress with an attached tie of the same material. I put it on over my jeans and the result looked ridiculous. I took my jeans off and went without pants. It felt like I was nude.

“Need some help, sweetie?” the saleslady asked from the other side of the door.

“No. Thank you,” I retorted.

Because dad had told me to try it on, I stepped out of the changing room for dad and the saleslady to let them see how I looked.

“Oh…” said dad.

“Didn't I tell you?” the saleslady exclaimed.

“Yeah…” dad couldn't say anything sensible.

“Isn't she beautiful?” the saleslady insisted.

“We'll take it,” dad said at last.

“DAD!” I tried to protest.

“It's ok,” dad said, “go change.”

“She can stay in it,” the saleslady said, “I just need the tag.”

“No, no… I'll change,” I insisted and hurried into the changing room.

It wouldn't be the first feminine thing in my closet. I had a denim skirt. Dad had mistaken it for denim cutoffs a year ago.

The next stop was the food court. Neither of us was much good in the kitchen. After my mom left with Mr. Young and Handsome, dad and I discovered that we did not know how to cook. I was learning. But to learn isn't the same as to know how.

Two months ago, dad came home early from the hospital where he works as a burn surgeon and caught my mom with a lover. It was the classic adultery scene. Those are all the details I was given — handsome young guy. Mom had left the same day. We hadn't heard from her since.

With my mom gone, the only tasty food was in a restaurant. Where we both were sitting now.

“What would you like, sir?” the waitress asked dad.

“Steak. Rare,” dad said.

“And you, miss?” the waitress turned to me.

“Fries and lettuce,” I said.

“What would you like to drink, sweetie?”

“Coke.”

“Diet?”

“Diet is fine.”

My hair was on the longish side. When mom was around, she made me keep my hair short. It was trimmed every month. I had missed three cuts already. I liked it that way to say the truth.

“Do I need a haircut?” I asked dad.

“Dunno,” dad shrugged, “do you like it short?”

It was my turn to shrug. Because I didn’t want admit I liked it long.

 

 

The next day was tryouts day at school.

I was not a bad long-distance runner. My time for the 10k was somewhere around sixty. I had run twenty laps already. My time was the same as usual – fifty-nine and forty-two. The time was good, but the coach wanted more. He decided to check me for cross country.

After an hour's break, I took off along the course that was laid out. The path around the campus was six miles. It's because the campus encompassed two schools – Falmouth Senior High and Junior High. So the path around the campus was probably a little more than 10k but not laps. Not exactly cross country, but with a few hills. But it’s similar to cross.

Tryouts were coming to an end and not many students were left. The weather was excellent – the sun was shining but the weather wasn’t hot. I rounded the golf field and the sky became cloudy. I got to the arboretum and… Maine wouldn’t be Maine if the rain didn’t start at the most inopportune moment.

Turn back or go forward it would take the same amount of time. I was three miles away from the start. Or finish. It was pouring now. And the temperature dropped significantly.

“Run over to the shower,” the coach ordered when I, at last, came back. I was drenched and cold with my teeth rattling. He didn't have to persuade me.

Shortly, I was under a stream of hot water. But some fresh air freak had left a window open and I could feel a cold breeze. The window was up near the ceiling and I couldn't reach it, even standing on the bench. It only served to remind me that I was not very tall for a boy.

I wrapped myself in a towel around my waist. I still could feel the cold breeze. Then I wrapped the towel under my armpits to keep myself warm.

Then a tall boy entered the showers.

“Would you be so kind to close that window on the top?” I asked.

He stepped on the bench. And he was tall. Or I – short. With him standing on the bench I was only to his waist. He reached for the window and at this moment another coach entered the showers. I guessed that was a basketball coach.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded as if we were doing something wrong.

“Showering,” I said.

“Closing the window,” the boy said.

“Your bag?” the coach inquired motioning his head to my gym bag.

I nodded. I had all my things in my bag. Cuz it was summer break and all of the lockers were locked.

He grabbed the bag and put his other hand on my shoulder.

“Come with me,” he ordered and let me into the hall and then down the corridor to the nurse's office. I was nude under the towel. The only positive thing was the school was completely empty.

We entered the nurse's office.

“What happened?” the nurse asked.

“I caught her in boys' showers with a boy,” the coach said.

Wait! WHAT?!

“What boy?” the nurse inquired.

“Dwight Taylor.”

“Doing what?” the nurse asked.

“Could be anything,” the coach said and left.

“We didn't,” I tried to tell my version.

“We are here not to judge but to help,” the nurse said.

Then she took the disposable spatula.

“Open your mouth and stick your tongue out,” she ordered.

I did as I was told. She pressed the spatula over my tongue.

“Seems clean,” she stated. Then she added, “Dwight is cute. Maybe the cutest. Who would blame you?”

She gave me a cup with a bluish liquid, “Wash your mouth. With this one gargle your throat,” she said giving me another cup with a yellowish liquid.

“You may put your clothes on behind the screen,” the nurse offered.

I dressed behind the screen and appeared a minute later.

“Tomboy,” she stated looking me up and down.

“Boy,” I corrected her.

“By what name?” she asked.

“Polly Jukkonnen.”

She studied something on her computer screen.

“Not on the list,” she said. “To change your gender just fill out the form in the office for teachers to know how to address you.”

“Look on the boys' list,” I offered.

“Nice try,” the nurse chuckled. “Cover your breasts first, boy.”

I looked down and two tents were there.

“It's cold,” I said.

“A bra usually is enough.”

 

 

I went home after tryouts and made dinner. You can't go to the restaurant every day. I don't claim that what I fixed was tasty, but I tried.

We were both quiet while we ate. I was still thinking about what happened at school. Dad was looking at me with a funny expression.

“We can order pizza if you don't like it,” I offered.

“Nah… It's ok,” he replied.

“You look strange,” he said after a while.

We finished eating and he asked, “have you put makeup on?”

“DAD!” I protested.

“Just asked. Don't get so agitated.”

“Those are dark circles under my eyes. I’m tired after tryouts,” I explained. I couldn’t tell him what happened afterwards and had caused those dark circles to appear.

 

 

We hadn't cleaned up the house after mom left. Mom had a woman to come and do all cleaning. When mom left we didn’t have the phone number for that woman. I know. It’s the lamest excuse to think of. But we both, dad and I, were depressed and didn’t do anything at home.

All of the tasks of dusting, vacuuming, putting all things in their places, cleaning bathrooms and the kitchen needed to be done. Nothing had been done in almost two months.

It was Friday of the long weekend before Labor Day and I had finally gotten around to doing some housework. I had time to start laundry and dusting. Not everything in one day but I had to start. Dad will never start by himself because he just could not start things he didn't like.

“I'm home!” dad exclaimed, coming in while I was washing the floor.

He went to his room. Dad didn't stay in the master bedroom anymore after mom left us. He occupied a guest room on the first floor instead.

“Need help?” he asked a few minutes later when he emerged from his room after a quick shower.

“No. I'm good,” I said.

“Then I'll order pizza. Is pepperoni ok?”

“Sure thing.”

We had pizza delivered to our home from dad's favorite place – Portland Pie. He was probably their most loyal customer. I had pepperoni with red onion and dad had ham with bleu cheese. And no, I didn't eat the whole pizza. Dad finished mine after he ate his.

It was already dark when we finished and we went to the living room to browse TV channels. Neither of us was a TV fan, but after mom left we needed time together. Probably more than before. It ended with dad dozing off on a lazy chair when the phone rang. Not his smartphone, but the house phone on the wall. It was an old one with a disc dial and a long cord.

I answered.

“This is Ella Jukkonnen,” the chirpy but old voice on the other end introduced, “is your daddy at home dear?”

“Sure, ma'am. Getting him,” I replied.

I didn't have to wake dad though, he was already standing behind me. He talked on the phone for several minutes, but I couldn't figure out what had happened because I heard only dad's side of the conversation and he said only one-syllable answers.

“My Godfather Apollinarius has passed away,” dad said after he disconnected at last.

I knew dad had a Godfather. Because we got postcards every Christmas and Easter and Finland independence day on sixth December. I didn't know I had his name.

“He was the only relative who didn't turn away after I married your mom,” dad said.

My mom's a Russian. Vera. Not short of Veronica. Just Vera, it means Faith.

My great-grandparents were from Viipuri in Finland. The town was occupied by Russians and my great-grandparents were exiled to Siberia. After WW2, they were allowed to go back to Finland but they had no relatives there so they moved to America instead. Russians were number one on their Don't Like list.

At home, mom and dad were always competing to win my affections. The first language I learned to speak was Russian. The second was Finnish. English was the last one I learned. I had some terrible Russo Finnish accent. Not as terrible as uncle Igor's “Good mo-rr-nin-gh”, but close to it.

I got sidetracked. Sorry. Back to the story.

“He helped to pay for our home. This house,” dad added.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“The funeral is tomorrow in Springfield. It's about two hundred miles away,” dad said. “Before we go I need to get a suit,”

“I don't have anything formal either,” I said.

“I've texted Taylor House. They will open tomorrow early in the morning for us. And…”

“What?” I inquired. I felt it was something twisted and I didn't like it.

“My aunt thinks you are a girl. I don't want her to be embarrassed. You don't need to dress like a girl. But maybe just some hints. Please… You don't have to go overboard,” dad asked, almost begging.

 

 

At eight in the morning, we were at Taylor House. It's not a very posh place but it isn't a jeans store either. Dad was with an elderly man. Probably the owner. Dad's left leg is shorter than his right. He didn't limp but regular pants looked funny on him.

I assumed that I would wait for dad and then we would buy something for me in the mall because I didn't need alterations. But no! It didn't work out that way.

“Do you have a pantsuit for Polly?” dad asked.

“Follow me,” a woman said to me. She had come up behind me while I was watching Dad. She was probably the owner's wife. Or his daughter because the owner was really old. The man addressed her as Sharon.

I followed the woman, Sharon, to another room. The female section.

The pantsuit she pulled out was like a regular suit but with buttons on the left. And no pockets. The pants had a fly but it was too short to be useful. I thought that the pants were too short. Not short-short but I could see my shoes and socks.

The socks I was supposed to wear turned out to be sheer black knee socks. Because I was short, the socks went over my knees. The shoes weren’t shoes that I was used to either. They were black flats with a modest black bow. There was no shirt either. Instead, there was a black silk cami with spaghetti straps and lace on top instead. The underwear had lace leg openings so that no panty lines were visible.

After I adjusted my bits (don’t ask how I knew, it’s another story) and got dressed the suit looked good. For a girl. I couldn’t be mistaken for a boy at the moment.

I was done and I was ready to go. Sharon and I went to another room where my dad was waiting. Dad was ready too. He looked good, but he always does. Nobody would know that his legs were different.

There were two other men in the room with him. The owner and a teen-aged boy. The same boy who closed the window at school when his coach had mistaken me for a girl.

When our eyes met I was soooo embarrassed… I felt my cheeks burn in shame.

“I'm not like this usually,” I said to him.

“Yeah…” he replied, “I've noticed you're a tomboy…”

We had to go at that point, so I figured that I would explain to him later that I'm a boy and not a tomboy.

 

 

There was not much about the funeral to tell. Almost four hours in the car, fighting the traffic and escaping jams of almost the whole country returning home from vacation.

Then the funeral itself. Church. Cemetery. Funeral repast. We were back at home a few minutes after midnight. Exhausted, sweaty, and dirty.

 

 

It was now Labor Day and school started tomorrow. Dad and I could do something together. Like BBQ. Or picnic. With neighbors or with dad's friends. I had no friends here.

Dad was on call at the hospital and received an emergency call. That meant no BBQ today.

I was left alone with nothing to do. I continued what I had started two days ago. Cleaning, dusting, vacuuming.

Then laundry. Whites and bed sheets. Colors separated. Fine materials separated.

The dryer stopped working at some point. I couldn't call a repairman because it was Labor Day. All my things for school were soaked. The rain started, so I couldn't hang them outside. Crap.

Mom had left most of her clothes behind. I found some things that weren't girly. Like an army green tee. It was tight and sort of cropped but it would do for one day. The trousers were a sandy color with a lot of pockets. I was the same size as mom. Almost. The pants were tight around the butt and loose around the legs. I didn't look like a girl. Well, maybe a little. But it was for just one day. I had to look more like a boy. Hopefully.

 

 

Before classes started, the first thing I did was to go to the office. I had to fix that error of me not being on the boys' list. The office was crowded. New students probably. Or it was just the first day of the school year. I had my name and surname on a sheet of paper in block letters. To spare spelling my name. Polly Jukkonnen. Not on the list. Any list. Neither boy nor girl. The office had more than just computer lists. They had paper files for every student. They had my file too. Polly Jukkonnen. Why wasn't I on the list then?

“Come back after classes,” the office administrator asked, “I'll find it out during the day.”

I went to my homeroom. Our homeroom teacher was an elderly gentleman named Vince Del Giado. The first thing he did was roll call. I wasn't on his list where I was supposed to be between Liz Jammer and Marilyn Katz. How could that be? But then my name was called at the end of the list. Polly Jukkonnen – present. Strange. Very strange.

Then it dawned on me. My surname could be spelled differently because of the pronunciation – Yukkonnen! The first day at school was special with its roll calls at the beginning of every class. Nobody pays attention to them. Roll call – what a big deal! It was important to me now. At every roll call, I was the last. Only once Steven Zoltan was behind me.

When I went to the office after classes I had an answer.

“Good you didn’t leave,” the office administrator said. Principal Goldblum was there too. She told me to come to her office.

“Sit down,” principal said. It wasn't an order. Rather an invitation. “Your father is in the hospital.”

“Yes, I know,” I replied.

“He had surgery,” the principal added.

“So fast,” I wondered. “Dad said before leaving this morning that today's surgery could be ten hours or even more.”

“You don't understand. He has undergone the surgery. The surgery is over and your father is in ICU,” the principal said.

I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say. It was unreal. It couldn't be.

The administrator handed me a tissue. Apparently, I was crying. Shit… I wasn't supposed to cry. Especially in public. I dabbed my eyes dry and blew my nose.

“Your aunt is here to take you,” the administrator said.

“What aunt?” I wondered. I didn’t have an aunt. Only the uncle.

“Ella,” principal said. “She's waiting in her car in the visitors' parking lot.”

The principal walked with me out to the parking lot. In the visitors' parking lot, there was only one car – a Volvo SUV. It had to be my aunt.

The woman exited the car when I came closer to it. It was aunt Ella. Dad's aunt Ella. Dad's Godfather's widow. I barely recognized her because she was not in funeral attire. She looked almost like my mom despite the fact that she was at least twenty years older.

“Glad to see you, dear,” she said after a bear hug, “though I'd prefer to meet you under other circumstances.”

“How…?” I had so many questions.

Before Ella began to explain, the Principal patted me on the shoulder and wished me well, hoping that my father would be okay. She nodded to Ella, obviously passing me off to her before she walked back to the school.

“I'm the first on your dad's keen relatives' list. So I was the first one they called after Edgar (that's my dad's name) was taken to surgery. The traffic was light and it took me only three hours to get to the hospital. Edgar is still unconscious. I am your guardian now. Are you ready to go visit your dad?”

“Yes… Sure…” I still had so many unanswered questions. “But how? And why?”

“Gastric ulcer,” the aunt said when we were already in the car, “with perforation. Far-gone.”

“Dad was healthy,” I complained, “only sometimes he took baking soda. He didn't say anything…”

“Men are like that,” aunt stated.

We drove in silence for a while.

“Hard work. Tension at work and probably at home. Non-regular meals. Improper diet,” she listed.

“It's my fault then,” I said. “I had to prepare meals but I didn't. Not always. Not healthy ones. Tasteless.”

“Stop it,” aunt retorted. “You are too young to be responsible for an adult's life. And then again Edgar is a doctor himself. He had to know the risks of wrong diet, overworking, and other things.”

Dad was now in the same hospital where he worked – Maine Medical Center. Only in a different ward.

“Jukkonnen,” the aunt said at the nurses' station.

The nurse looked down at the list and said, “Only one of you can go in at a time. Sorry. It's standard policy in the Intensive Care Unit.”

“Then the girl goes,” the aunt replied.

It was me the girl. I was changed into some protective suit. Similar to one in the movies about epidemics. But the face was left open.

I was led into an antechamber and then into the room with the bed and a lot of various equipment. The room was rather cool. And humid. Or it seemed like that to me. Some equipment was beeping. Another was humming. There wasn't that air pump like in the movies about hospitals.

I went closer to the bed and there was dad. Or what was left of him. It seemed like it was only a half left of the man I saw just this morning at home.

His eyes were closed. He breathed steadily. No tube in his mouth but some tube under his nose. I wanted to take his hand but one hand seemed be wrapped in wires and other hand was attached to an IV tube.

The only thing I could do was kiss his forehead. His head was covered with a shower cap. It would be funny to see him under other circumstances.

“He will be okay,” the nurse assured me while holding my hand.

When I got back to the nurses' station my aunt was waiting for me with a doctor. The man was younger than dad.

“Your father's ulcer is old and some nasty things happened inside," he explained. "Doctor Goretzki repaired your father's ulcer. I assisted with the surgery. He will survive, your daddy, but it will take at least a month for him to get back to close to normal.”

“When can I see him again?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” the doc said, “though it's better to come during regular visiting hours, from five to seven.”

 

 

Something happens and life changes and things never will be the same again. Mom had left us just a few months ago. But that was different. Mom didn't care. I was ignored. It seemed she wanted me out of her hair. I was closer to dad. Maybe because he cared more. Dunno… Who knows…

“What now?” aunt Ella asked when we were back in her car.

“Home?” I offered.

“Grocery first,” she said.

“We could order pizza…”

“We have already one victim of fast food,” aunt retorted, “I'll teach you everything about healthy meals.”

 

 

I was so glad I had tidied the house two days ago. Before it was a mess for months. All that time after mom had left dad and I hadn't done much cleaning. I know, to be depressed isn't an excuse. But it was just so.

The first thing to do was sleeping arrangements. After mom left, Dad had moved into the guestroom on the first floor. The master bedroom on the second floor was free. Not literally free. Mom left with almost nothing. All her clothes, makeup, and some jewelry were still in the closet, in the chest, and vanity.

Aunt Ella took the master bedroom. I helped her with all three of her suitcases from the car. Then we both went downstairs to the kitchen and made dinner.

When my mom was still around, she didn't like me in the kitchen. It was the reason my learning in the kitchen was still so lame.

Now we were here both, aunt Ella and I, and we did everything together. She explained why and showed me how to do things. It was fun. For the first time, it was fun.

Then dinner and after the meal, she had a surprise. She had a movie on DVD. We had a DVD player but, to tell the truth, we never used it. At least not in my presence.

The movie was It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. More than fifty years old. But so much fun! I didn't remember when I'd laughed so much. Up to the final scene.

“Momma,” I blurted when Mrs. Marcus started berating the men.

“Exactly,” aunt Ella echoed with a chuckle.

I thought about mom. Then about dad. And I got sad and moody and tears started flowing without my consent.

Aunt hugged me and patted my back.

“He'll be okay, your daddy,” she whispered in my ear, “he'll never leave his precious girl alone.”

She thought I was a girl. I wasn't. I couldn’t be a girl. Otherwise, it would be a lie.

“I'm not. I can't be. No matter how I want to be,” I whispered and tears poured even harder.

“It's your mother's doing to make you think you can't,” aunt stated firmly.

“What…?”

“It happened ten years ago at my son Matti's wedding," she began. "Your mom, dad and you were present. As well as the rest of the family. Your cousin Karita was the same age as you – five. She was a flower girl. You had to be the ring bearer. You threw a fit because Karita was in a white dress and you had to be in a black suit and you wanted the same dress as Karita's. You said you would go only in a dress. We and the rest of the family said okay. You are who you are. No complaints. Then your mom had a temper tantrum. She said her son will never be a pidor and she wanted nothing from all those Finnish liberast scumbags. Then you and your family left and the rest of the family turned away from your dad.”

I said nothing. It was a lot of information to take in. A little too much…

“For your whole Finnish family, you are tyttö Polly. Tyttö stands for girl in Finnish. And nobody cares what genetic disorder you have. Tyttö. Period.”

“And dad?”

“Your father isn't sure what you want. If you want to be a boy, we will help you and teach you to be a boy. Only if you want…”

I didn't say a word. I was shocked. Excited and embarrassed. I could be what I was. That was great. But here in Portland, people might recognize me as a sophomore boy from Falmouth High.

 

 

The next morning, I had my usual clothes clean, dry and pressed, and ready for school. I wore my usual sneakers, jeans, tee, and hoodie. A lot of boys and girls dressed like that.

“You need some accent,” the aunt said before I left.

“What accent?” I wondered.

“I studied your school's Parent/student handbook”

“I know that book,” I replied, “There is nothing about accents in it.”

“You didn't read carefully,” the aunt said. “It says you can wear two rings on each hand as long as they are not on the thumbs. You can have one necklace with a religious pendant, not over your clothes. You can have one bracelet on one of your hands other than a watch. You can paint your nails in natural colors. And you can have eyeliner and eyelashes in black or navy. Did you know that?”

“It's about girls.”

“You are tyttö… girl,” she said.

“Oh… Yah… Right… Sorry.”

“Don't be. I am here to help you on your path into femininity,” aunt chuckled.

“What?”

“Stand still and close your eyes,” she ordered.

I did as she said. I felt some stick brushing around my eyelids. Couldn't say where exactly. I wanted to see but my eyes were closed.

“I think you look better,” aunt stated.

“Can I see it?”

“Suit yourself,” she replied.

I turned to the mirror in the hallway. Something was different with my face. I could see it but I couldn't say what it was.

“I outlined your eyes with black waterproof kohl,” the aunt said.

“What waterproof?” I didn't understand what she meant by kohl.

“Kohl. It's the name of the eyeliner,” she explained, “I'll teach you later how to apply it. Go now. Or you'll be late for school. Be home at four. We'll go to the hospital. I have called the ICU already. Your dad is doing okay.”

 

 

Was it my new attitude or was it the kohl? But people looked at me more. Some smiled. Some said hello and I answered.

And today it was different with my dad. Aunt said he was okay. Yesterday, I didn't know if was he sleeping or if he was in a coma. Then there were a lot of new words, that adults understood and I did not. Like ulcer, perforation, and diffusion.

 

 

At home I had still time for my homework before leaving. Then a quick shower and I was ready to change. When I exited the bathroom, I found Ella in my room. She had a dress laid out on my bed.

“I found this in your closet,” she said.

“Dad bought it,” I explained. “The saleslady said it looked great on me and dad bought it despite my protests.”

“I see… Put it on,” she offered.

“Now?”

“Yes. Now. It's the thing your father liked you in. Why not put it on to please him?”

“People will laugh at me. I'm a boy. I can't go to the hospital in a dress,” I complained.

“When was the last time you were mistaken for a boy?” the aunt asked instead.

She was right. I couldn’t give her an example of the last time anyone had seen me as a boy.

I went to the hospital in the dress. It was strange. Not bad strange but rather lovely strange.

Dad had been moved from ICU to a regular room. He was in bed with an IV attached to one hand and a tube sticking from his chest and some other things I didn't know how to name.

“Oh!” he exclaimed when he saw us entering his room.

“Tyttö,” he said when I bent to kiss him on the forehead because he still had a tube under his nose. The tube went both ways crossing his cheeks.

“Isn't she beautiful?” aunt Ella exclaimed making me blush.

“Oh yeah, she is,” dad said.

Hearing dad agree that I was tyttö brought back the story that Ella had told me earlier. I was able to be the girl that I always wanted to be. Standing before my smiling father and aunt, I realized that I had been arguing that I was a boy more to satisfy my mother than myself.

 

 

The End