“What did you want to tell me?” My dad sits down on the steps leading down to the living room, pushing his feet into his black sneakers.

Do I really have to tell him? Why did I decide to tell him now instead of waiting until I can have someone to back me up? I start to tremble, anxious about what could possibly happen by me telling him.

“Nevermind,” I suddenly spout. “It’s nothing important.”

“Come on, tell me,” my dad coaxes.

You can’t run away from this now.

I carefully take the yellow book out of my bag. It was shiny, as if it had barely been read. The title: “Living with a Transgender Child.” Looking at the cover one last time before I seal my fate, I pass the book to him with both hands. My dad looks at the front slowly, analyzing every word. A few seconds pass as we sit in silence, me with bated breath.

“Oh, is this what you wanted to tell me?” he finally asked, referring to the “transgender” part of the title. I nod cautiously. Again, we pass several seconds in silence. “This is a lot to take in,” my dad says. “Are you really sure that you are?”

In reality, I wasn’t actually sure, which would lead me to questioning my identity once again when he would later ask me the same question. However, for the time being, I nodded.

“I knew you would ask me eventually why I would choose the color of paint for my room that I did anyway, so I wanted to get this out in the open,” I explained. We were going to drive to the next town to get some paint, and I knew I wanted to pick something representing my new identity as a woman, so I decided that a dark purple would fit well. It later turned out that I wouldn’t end up painting my room after all, but I am still grateful that the paint helped me to come out to my parents and discover my true identity, even if it’s still ever changing.