Unconditional” by Denise Glickler

In the fading light, the Florida streets buzzed with life. Long shadows danced on the pavement,
animated by the setting sun. Amidst the jostle, one figure stood stark, a man with the weight of
his world showing in his eyes. John Richardson was his name, a man known for his adamantine
beliefs. His life had always been defined by structure, order, Christianity, and staunch
predictability. But that changed when his only son, 15-year-old Sam, confessed to being a
transgender woman.
When Tabitha finally summoned the courage to reveal her true self to her father, it was a quiet
afternoon. They sat in their living room, the silence broken only by the ticking of the grandfather
clock.
"Dad," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "I am a woman. In my heart, in my soul, I
have always been a woman." She looked at him with hopeful eyes, seeking understanding, and
acceptance.
John looked at his child, his mind racing. He took a deep breath, his face hardening as he
leaned forward. "Tabitha, the Bible says, 'So God created man in his own image.' You're trying
to change the image of God. It's not natural. It's... It's an abomination!" His voice echoed
through the room, his Christian beliefs forming a wall between him and his daughter.
Tabitha's face fell, but she quickly composed herself. "Dad, I'm not changing God's image. I am
embracing who I truly am. This is how God made me."
"No!" John's voice thundered through the room. "God made you a man. You are Samuel, my
son, not this...Tabitha."
"But Dad, this is me. This is who I am." Tabitha's voice wavered, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Why can't you accept that?"
"Because it's wrong!" John bellowed, rising from his seat. His heart pounded in his chest, his
anger growing with every passing second. "It's against God's will. It's against nature."
"I'd rather live my truth than live a lie, Dad." Tabitha's voice was firm, resolute. She stood up,
meeting her father's gaze.
With a roar of frustration, John pointed at the door. "Get out! If you choose to live this...this
abomination, you can't do it under my roof."
Tears streaming down her face, Tabitha grabbed her bag and walked towards the door. She
paused at the threshold, looking back at her father. "I hope one day, you'll understand," she
said, her voice barely a whisper. With that, she stepped out into the night, the door closing
behind her with a resounding thud.
In the ensuing two months, the Richardson household was shrouded in a palpable tension.
John's wife, Martha, yearned for her child's return. She missed Tabitha's laughter filling their
home, her presence infusing life into the quiet corners. Yet, she was hesitant to challenge John,
fearful of the storm it could unleash. Night after night, she would sit by the window, her eyes
scanning the quiet street, waiting for Tabitha's return.
The house once filled with warmth and laughter, now echoed with silence and unspoken regrets.
There were moments when John would find himself staring at Tabitha's empty room, a lump
forming in his throat. He would remember her smile, her laughter, and a part of him would wish
he hadn't thrown her out. But then, his conservative beliefs would rear their ugly head, and his
resolve would harden. He would remind himself of the 'sin' he believed Tabitha was committing,
and his momentary lapse would evaporate.
Slowly, John found solace at the bottom of a bottle. The amber liquid became his companion in
the lonely hours of the night. He would pour himself a drink, then another, until the world blurred
around him, and the guilt and regret were drowned in a sea of alcohol. He would sit in the dimly
lit living room, his mind replaying the argument, the slamming door, the tears in Tabitha's eyes.
And with each passing day, the bottle became his refuge, a place to hide from the growing
emptiness of his home and the gnawing guilt in his heart.
One morning, as John arrived at his downtown office, he noticed a crumpled piece of paper at
the entrance. His office was located in a part of the city where homeless people often sought
shelter and discarded papers and trash were not an uncommon sight. He reached down to pick
it up, intending to throw it away. But as he was about to toss it into a nearby bin, something
caught his eye. He noticed a small part of the handwriting that was visible on the creased
surface. It was a familiar scrawl, one he had seen countless times on school assignments and
birthday cards. It was Tabitha's handwriting. His heart pounded in his chest as he carefully
unfolded the paper, his hands trembling slightly. He read the words:
“Dad,
I can't continue to live a lie. Every day, every hour, every second spent pretending to be
someone I'm not is like a dagger in my heart. I am a woman. I always have been. I can't be
happy living as a man; it's a life that suffocates me.
But the misery of living this truth is unbearable too, knowing that it has caused you to hate me. I
am your child, and all I ever wanted was to make you proud. Instead, I see the disappointment
and disgust in your eyes. It is a pain that cuts deeper than any physical wound.
I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry for being a disappointment. I'm sorry for not being the son you wanted.
I'm sorry for not being able to be someone I'm not. I can't bear the weight of this guilt any longer.
I've reached a point where I feel it's better to be dead than to continue living this lie. I hope you
find it in your heart to forgive me someday.
Tabitha"
Reading the letter was like a punch to the gut, a harsh wake-up call that brought John to his
knees. His anger, and his stubborn beliefs, all seemed so insignificant now, overshadowed by a
profound sense of guilt and fear. The words on the page echoed in his mind, each one a
damning indictment of his own failure as a father.
He thought of Tabitha, alone and in pain, believing that she had no other option but to end her
life. The reality of his child's suffering, her despair, cut through him like a knife. He remembered
the tears in her eyes, the resolve in her voice when she had stood up to him, and he was filled
with a deep, gnawing remorse.
His anger had turned his child away and had driven her to the brink. The realization was like
cold water dousing the flames of his rage, replaced by a chilling fear. The possibility that his
child might be dead, that she might have taken her own life because of his actions, was thought
too painful to bear. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of guilt and fear, as he clutched the
crumpled note in his trembling hands.
John's search for Tabitha was a race against time, a desperate attempt to find his daughter and
make things right. His first stop was at the homes of Tabitha's friends, but they met him with
hostility and anger. They blamed him for Tabitha's pain, for her despair, and their accusations
stung. John left each home feeling more desperate, more helpless.
Next, he went to her school, only to find the doors locked and the corridors empty. He pounded
on the doors, and called out for someone, anyone to let him in, but his pleas echoed off the
empty buildings. He sat on the steps of the school, the wind biting through his coat, a sense of
helplessness washing over him. He was running out of places to look, running out of hope.
Finally, he found himself at the hospital, the last place he could think to search. As he entered
the emergency room, a flurry of activity caught his attention. A young woman, looking pale and
frail, was being rushed into surgery. His heart stopped as he recognized Tabitha's familiar
features. He tried to follow, to reach out to her, but the hospital staff held him back. He watched,
paralyzed, as the doors to the operating room swung shut, his daughter on the other side. The
weight of his guilt and fear threatened to crush him as he sank into a chair, his mind filled with
prayers for Tabitha's survival.
Dear Reader, imagine a world where Tabitha survives her ordeal. Where her father, John, finds
forgiveness in his heart and begs for hers. The question lingers, will he continue to push her to
change, to fit into his narrow vision of the world? Or will he finally accept, love, and support her
as a woman, as his daughter? This is a possible future, a hopeful one where love and
acceptance triumph over bigotry and hatred.
But let's not forget how easily it could have gone differently. The crumpled note could have been
tossed aside, and discarded like trash, and Tabitha could have died, alone and unloved. John
could have lived on, never realizing the depths of despair he had driven his own child to. It's a
chilling thought, isn't it? As a parent, as a human being, we must remember to love a child as
they are and as they grow to be. If you truly love your child, their gender identity should not and
does not matter. Love, pure and true, is unconditional. It does not discriminate, it does not
judge, and it certainly does not push away a child in their time of need. Let this story serve as a
stark reminder. Love your children for who they are, not who you want them to be.