They kept being told that my 'gender dysphoria' was so intense that the only option was for me to begin treatment to become a girl physically, and the earlier, the better. But that was not acceptable to my parents. They wanted someone who could change who I was mentally, so I would be the boy that they knew I was meant to be.I begged them to change their mind and to let me start hormones before my bone structure had set, or my face had grown stubble, but they resoundingly refused.“I might not have a real son,” my dad would rasp, “but I'm not going to pretend like I've got a daughter.”My mother's anger developed into outright rejection. My father's anger developed into v******e. After the second bloody nose in one week, supposedly dolled out to, “man me up,” I knew I had to leave. I fled to the one person I could trust: my maternal grandmother from Augsburg, Grandma Jutta. She was the grandma who always kept a secret box for me: one with dresses and makeup and other girlie stuff. She. She ran her fingers through her hair shaking it loose as she walked, then looped the elastic in a knot with the spare she had with her, putting them both in the pocket of her jeans. The streets were quiet and deserted and she looked up at the stars as she walked, humming to herself and glad to be out on such a beautiful night. Walking along the long road beside the industrial estate she paused, thinking she had heard a sound. She looked around but there was nothing there, no sounds and no movement. She laughed at herself shaking her head and decided to take a left and cut through the park to get home; it would be beautiful bathed in the moonlight and always smells of flowers in the summer. She stepped out onto the tree lined path that stretched from one end of the park to the other and began to walk along it, taking a deep breath of the fragrant air. She froze when she heard a scrape behind her, heart racing and the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. A cat shot past her out.
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