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“But you have to let me ask you something first.”

Questions from Mom never go well. I put the yogurt down. My fingers tremble with the strain of not turning on my heel and storming away, to hell with all of it. “Okay.”

Mom takes a deep breath. Finishes her fourth glass of wine.

“What you said about wanting to be a boy,” she says, and it’s a guillotine coming down. Why this? Why now? She—she must have caught me pushing my voice into a lower register when I thought she wasn’t around to hear. Or she noticed my sports bras are a size too small, in a last-ditch and ill-advised attempt to flatten my chest. She saw a crack in my mask, because masks are fallible, and—

Mom says, “Do you want to be a boy because, because”—she shakes her head, throat tightening like she’s about to cry—”because you don’t want to be like me? Because you hate me?”

She says, “Or is it because you want to be more like him?”

Oh my god.

This bitch.

She says that like I didn’t sob when I realized I was trans. Like her accusation wasn’t the very thing that got caught on loop in my brain for weeks, screaming that I’m only transgender because I’m turning into my father. That men are bad people, and I’m a man because I’m a bad person. I’m a bad person because I’m a man.

All I can say is “Holy shit, Mom.”

“Is that why you want to see him?” she demands. “Because you want to be a boy sooo bad, and I’m not enough for you? Because you hate women? Is that it?”

She has to know she’s waving red in front of a bull.

“You know what,” I say, “sure! That’s exactly how it works. Go call up the Family Research Council and tell them you figured it out. The big transsexual mystery, you solved it!” Mom’s lip curls, showing her Invisalign-perfect teeth. “Package it with some autism talk and they’ll pay you a million dollars. You’ll give a speech at the White House.”

“You sound just like him,” she spits.

“And you sound drunk. It’s not even noon. You’re sloppy.”

“You want to know how I know you’re just like him?” Mom takes a step toward me. When I take a step back, I hit the sink. The decorative glass beside the faucet rattles. “Because you and your father are the only people I know who can’t—who can’t keep those nasty little impulses”—she gestures wildly, intoxicatedly—”to yourself.“

I suck in a lungful of air through my teeth, making a hissing noise.

It comes back out as a laugh.

“Wait,” I giggle, voice cracking on the words. “You would know about keeping it to yourself? You?”

“What?” Mom snaps.

I say, “Hurt me.”

Mom is literally shaking with rage. Her chest heaves.

“Go to your room,” she whispers.

I don’t. I can’t help myself. I’m tearing forward because I have to, because I have to say the worst thing I can think of, because I am a manipulative bitch picking an open wound. I need to hurt her. I have to.

She doesn’t get to think that Dad is the only person that fucked me up.

“You’ll feel so much better if you do it,” I rant. “You’re sick of me, and you hate me, and you hate that you’re stuck raising me alone. If I’d shut up, you’d still have your husband. I ruined your life. Why wouldn’t you hurt me?”

Mom screams, “Upstairs, now!”

I grab a knife from the block next to the sink.

Slam my hand on the butcher block countertop.

Plunge the knife tip down into the wood between my thumb and pointer finger.