Ignoring the signs of my gender variance was the very least of what my parents did.

And ignorance generally? Well I’ve made allowance for that. Somehow I knew and did better as a parent. Somehow I knew and did better with a queer child of my own.

As for forgiveness well now… I approached them after thirteen years of silence. I did so with an open heart. I got rejected. I persisted, even going so far as to suggest none of us wanted to be on our death beds with things as they were.

The silence fell again. And it will endure this time. Forgiveness become moot at that point.

I won’t let the hurt dominate me, nor even to factor in my life as a whole. Forgiving them doesn’t change anything.

Hence this piece. It was cathartic. It was going to be longer, more detailed. But it didn’t need to be. Whether I’ve forgiven them or not doesn’t matter to them. Whether I’ve forgiven them or not doesn’t even matter to me really. That I’m able, finally, to draw a line under that part of my line. That I’ve found some closure. That’s as close to forgiveness as one can get when the other party doesn’t give a shit.

I do understand though, Kat. And I’m glad you’ve found a measure of peace with how your own parents might have let you down. Even though you have a ready explanation I know it still hurt.

Hugs, sister.

Capricious by name, steadfast by nature. Trans femme dyke. Smutsmith. Provocateur. Poet. Idiot. Kicking names and taking ass.

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