The living room smelled like Della’s cooking—some kind of fucking magical chicken piccata that made my stomach growl despite the anxiety threading through my ribs like barbed wire. My body still ached from the beating, bruises painting my skin in shades of purple and yellow that told stories I’d rather forget. Keira had insisted I stay home another week, and the bar crew had decided that if I wouldn’t come to The Sanctuary, they’d bring The Sanctuary to me.

Miguel had set up a makeshift bar on my dining room table, bottles of expensive shit lined up like soldiers ready for battle. Della commanded my kitchen with the kind of authority that made even my own fucking space feel like hers. Ezra sprawled across my couch, their blue hair a shock of color against my gray cushions, while Phoenix and River huddled together on the loveseat, River’s arm protectively around Phoenix’s shoulders, the ruby promise ring catching light from the window.

I still think this is a bad idea, Miguel said, pouring something amber and gorgeous into a rocks glass. His voice carried that sultry-childlike quality that somehow made even concern sound like seduction. He slid the glass across to me—some kind of rare Japanese whisky that probably cost more than my monthly medication bills, all honeyed oak and smoke, tasting like autumn sunsets and quiet apologies.

I took it without comment, letting the burn chase down my throat.

She’s Gizmo’s mom, Keira said from her perch, her voice steady and certain in that way that always made me feel simultaneously protected and exposed. And she’s trying. That’s more than a lot of people manage.

Remy stood near the window, his Cajun-thick frame backlit by afternoon sun, while Bubba occupied our recliner with the kind of settled weight that made it seem like he’d always been there. They’d both been around long enough to know the shape of my damage, the particular flavor of my fuck-ups.

Cher, you can’t run from your past forever, Remy offered, his half-French inflection softening the edges of hard truth. My mama used to say that guilt is like a roux—you gotta stir it proper or it burns black and ruins everything.

Easy for you to say, I muttered, watching the whisky catch light in the glass. Your mama loved you.

Wendy— Della’s voice cut from the kitchen, sharp and knowing. Don’t you fucking dare minimize what you’re feeling, but don’t you dare let it stop you from healing either. Mary isn’t Zoe. You know that.

Phoenix shifted uncomfortably, their constantly-changing piercings catching light—this week they’d gone with silver hoops that made them look both fragile and fierce. I don’t understand why you have to do this now. You’re still recovering.

River’s nurse-trained eyes assessed me with professional concern. Your blood pressure is probably through the fucking roof. This kind of stress—

Is necessary, I finished, taking another pull of the whisky. The Indigo Girls’ “Ghost” played soft from someone’s phone, Amy Ray’s voice singing about haunting and being haunted, about the ghosts we carry in our chests like badges of shame we can’t quite remove.

The knock came at 3:47 PM. I know because I watched the clock tick those final seconds like a death row inmate counting down to execution.

Mary stepped through the threshold and twenty years of history followed her like a shadow made of regret and what-ifs, her blonde hair showing strategic streaks of silver, her face bearing the kind of worn beauty that comes from surviving shit that should have broken you. She carried a covered dish, because of course she fucking did, because Mary had always shown love through food and small gestures that I’d never known how to receive.

Hello, Wendy, she said, and her voice was careful, measured, like she was approaching a wounded animal that might bolt.

Mary.

The silence stretched taut as a wire. There was a hug and a look. Phoenix’s hand found River’s, squeezing hard. Miguel’s jaw tightened. Bubba watched with those deep, knowing eyes that had seen decades of Southern bullshit and survived.

I brought homemade mac and cheese, Mary continued, lifting the dish slightly. I know you probably have enough food, but I—

MAC N CHEESE!!!, Phoenix bounded, moving to take the dish. We can always use more. Thank you. You make this yourself? They glanced with a smirk at Della over in the kitchen

Oh yes, I do. Wendy knows all too well. I think deep down, she misses it sometimes, Mary said with a smirk.

Really, it is quite literally the best thing that she makes, sorta like my shitty rice casserole that no one loves, I quipped.

HA, Mary laughed, You know that is about one of the only ways Gizmo will come here is if you swear to make it. I’ve tried, but I don’t do it like you do I guess.

Old Habits, I lauded, but then I felt a sense of dread on the oldness of Bill.

Mary’s eyes found mine. In them I saw all the nights I’d come home tired and lying, all the times she’d patched me up after I’d self-destructed so spectacularly that even I didn’t understand how I’d survived. I saw Gizmo as a baby, perfect and small, and me holding our daughter like I was afraid I’d break her just by breathing wrong.

How are you feeling? Mary asked, gesturing vaguely toward my visible bruises.

Like I got my ass kicked in an alley, I said, then immediately hated myself for the defensive edge in my voice. Phoenix perked up with a nod of solidarity in feeling. Sorry. I’m—it’s healing. Slowly.

Della emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, her femme-butch energy somehow making even that gesture seem both nurturing and intimidating. Mary, there’s coffee if you want it. Or something stronger. We’re not exactly following doctor’s orders around here.

A ghost of a smile touched Mary’s lips. Can you steam a milk with a touch of hazelnut or something in it?

I’ll get it, Ezra volunteered, unfolding from the couch with that easy enthusiasm that made them seem younger than their years. They paused near Mary, offering a small smile. I’m Ezra. They/them. I’ve heard a lot about you.

I’m sure you have, Mary said softly, taking the offered cup a moment later. Her eyes tracked back to me. Wendy, Can we talk? Just for a few minutes?

Every muscle in my body went rigid. Miguel stepped closer, protective instinct written across his face. Phoenix looked ready to launch from the loveseat. Even Remy had straightened from his window-watching position.

It’s okay, I heard myself say, though my voice sounded distant, detached. We can talk.

Keira’s eyes found mine again—that subtle pressure that said I’m here, you’re safe, you’re not alone.

Mary sat in the chair across from me, cradling her coffee like it might offer answers. Rush’s “Time Stand Still” filtered through the room now, Geddy Lee singing about wanting to freeze a moment, to hold on before everything changes, and fuck if that wasn’t the most apropos goddamn thing I’d heard all day.

I know this is difficult, Mary started. I know that you and I—that our history is complicated.

Complicated, I repeated, tasting the word like ash. That’s one way of saying it, ever so eloquently, the sarcasm in my voice being so obvious.

Wendy— Keira’s maternal voice held gentle warning.

No, it’s okay, Mary said, and there was steel underneath the softness. This was the Mary who’d survived being married to my pre-transition disaster of a self, the Mary who’d raised Gizmo through my confusion, the Mary who’d somehow found the strength to keep trying when any reasonable person would have walked away. Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it. You hurt me. Repeatedly. You lied, you gas-lit me, you self-destructed in ways that made me feel like I was drowning alongside you. Our history is pretty clearly obvious to those around.

The room held its collective breath. Phoenix’s eyes went wide. River’s arm tightened around them. Waiting for me to jump up and say that the activity was over, and everyone leave. But I didn’t.

I know, I said, and the words scraped out like broken glass. I know I did. I was—fuck, Mary, I was so goddamn broken and I didn’t even understand why. I was unlovable to myself, as much as I was to anyone else.

But I did love you, Mary said, and her eyes glistened. Still do. I loved who you were underneath all that damage. I loved the person I could see fighting to survive even when you couldn’t see it yourself. I loved Bill, even when Bill didn’t know how to love anyone, including himself. And I love Wendy now, because Wendy is who Bill always needed to become.

Miguel made a small sound—something between approval and grief. Della had stopped moving in the kitchen. Bubba nodded slowly, like Mary had just spoken some fundamental truth about survival and identity that he recognized in his bones.

But loving you nearly destroyed me too, Mary continued, her voice stronger now. Watching you self-destruct, watching you lie, watching you hurt yourself and everyone around you—it was like being in a war zone where the bombs never stopped falling. And Gizmo—Gods, Wendy, Gizmo.

The sound of my daughter’s name made my eyes sting. Phoenix shifted forward, their protective instincts toward me at war with their empathy for this woman they didn’t really know.

Gizmo deserved better than me, I said, my voice breaking. She deserved a parent who wasn’t drowning. She deserved—

She deserved you, Mary interrupted fiercely. Not the broken version Zoe created, but the real you. The you that’s sitting here now. The you that fights for these kids— she gestured around the room, —the you that built a fucking sanctuary out of a basement bar, the you that loves so fiercely you got beaten bloody for it.

Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” started playing, Stevie Nicks singing about reflection and change, about climbing mountains and seeing your reflection in snow-covered hills. I remembered singing this song with Gizmo when she was seven, her small voice earnest and slightly off-key, her hand in mine as we drove to her soccer practice.

How is she really? The question hurt coming out, like I was ripping off a scab that hadn’t healed. I mean, we talk on the phone every couple of days, but she never—she doesn’t tell me the real shit. Just surface stuff. Classes and weather and what she ate for dinner.

She’s adjusting to her first year at university. She wants to understand trauma, help people who’ve been through what you went through, what we all went through. Mary’s smile was sad and proud simultaneously. She’s brilliant and fierce and so fucking stubborn. Just like you.

Tears tracked down my face without permission. Keira’s hand moved to my neck, thumb stroking the pulse point there in small circles that said breathe, just breathe, you’re okay.

Well that means she talks to trauma at least twice a week, if not more. I talk to her and it’s like talking to a polite stranger, I choked out. She tells me about her classes and I can hear her holding back, keeping me at arm’s length. I don’t know how to bridge that gap. Maybe I am not meant to. I dunno.

You start by being an authentic you, Mary said. as Wendy, not as the ghost of Bill trying to apologize for existing. You start by letting her see this— she gestured around the room, at the found family gathered in protective solidarity, —letting her see the life you’ve built, the person you’ve become.

Remy cleared his throat. Mon ami, Mama—Mary—she speaks truth. Family ain’t always blood. Sometimes it’s the people who see you at your worst and stick around anyway. But that don’t mean you abandon the blood that’s trying to find you again.

Coming from a Black gay man who survived South Georgia in the seventies, Bubba added, his deep voice carrying weight and wisdom, I can tell you that holding onto anger and hurt is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die. Mary’s here. You’re here. That’s more than a lot of people get. Don’t waste it.

Phoenix looked between Mary and me, their young face uncertain. But Wendy—Mom—she’s been through so much. She doesn’t need to relive—

I’m not asking her to relive it, Mary said gently, turning to Phoenix. I’m asking her to move through it. There’s a difference. I was there, Phoenix. I saw what Zoe did.

The kindness in her voice undid something in my chest. All these years I’d expected judgment, anger, righteous fury. Instead, here was understanding. Here was someone who’d survived the blast radius of my damage and somehow found compassion anyway.

Miguel poured another measure of whisky into my glass without being asked. His eyes met mine—dark and knowing and full of that particular understanding that comes from being trans, from knowing what it costs to become yourself.

Family’s a strange fucking thing, he said softly. Sometimes it’s the people who helped break you. Sometimes it’s the people who help you heal. Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, it’s both.

Della appeared in the doorway, her face softer than I’d seen it in weeks. The chicken’s ready. And there’s enough lasagna to feed an army. Mary, you’re staying for dinner. That’s not a question.

Mary looked to me, uncertain. I saw in her face all the years we’d navigated around each other, all the careful distance we’d maintained to keep from reopening wounds. I saw Gizmo in her features—the same stubborn jaw, the same fierce eyes.

I saw my daughter, eighteen years old, studying psychology, wanting to understand trauma. Wanting to understand me.

Stay, I said, and the word felt like jumping off a cliff, like free-falling with no certainty of landing. Please. Stay.

The Pink Floyd song shifted to “Wish You Were Here,” and the irony wasn’t lost on me—this song about absence and presence, about wishing for connection across vast distances. Gizmo and I had sung this one too, her childish voice earnest with seven-year-old wisdom, not understanding the melancholy but feeling it anyway.

Mary stood, uncertain for a moment, then crossed the room. She knelt in front of me, her hands covering mine where they gripped the whisky glass like a lifeline.

We can’t undo the past, she said, her own tears falling freely now. We can’t erase what happened, what you went through, what I went through, what we put Gizmo through. But we can start from here.

I’m so fucking sorry, I gasped out. For all of it. For being so broken I couldn’t see straight. For hurting you when you were trying to love me. For not being what Gizmo needed. For—

Stop, Mary said firmly. You were a victim, Wendy. What Zoe did to you—that wasn’t your fault. The way you coped with that trauma, the person you became trying to survive it—that wasn’t your fault either. You made mistakes. But you were drowning, and I was too young and too unprepared to save either of us. That’s not blame. That’s just truth.

Ezra appeared with a box of tissues, pressing them into someone’s hands—I wasn’t sure whose. The room felt thick with emotion, heavy with decades of pain finally being acknowledged, witnessed, held.

You know what my mama taught me? Remy said into the silence. She said that healing is like making gumbo. You start with the darkest roux, that shit that looks burnt and ruined. But you add the right ingredients, you stir it with love, you give it time, and it becomes something nourishing. Something that feeds the soul.

Is that the same Gumbo she was making when she threatened to kill me? I laughed.

Oh, Mama, you know it, Remy chortled.

Profound as fuck, Bubba agreed. And more than Wendy here usually gets in terms of gentle wisdom.

That startled a laugh out of me—wet and broken but real. Mary smiled through her tears, recognizing something in that sound.

There she is, she said softly. There’s the person I remember underneath all the defense mechanisms.

Della called from the kitchen that dinner was ready, and the moment broke gently, leaving something raw but possible in its wake. We moved to the table—this strange gathering of past and present, of blood family and chosen family, of old wounds and new possibilities.

Mary sat across from me, as the usual, I didn’t look away.

We ate Della’s chicken and Mary’s lasagna, and the conversation flowed uncertain but genuine. Phoenix and River gradually relaxed, their protective stance softening as they watched Mary treat me with careful respect. Miguel kept my glass full, switching to water when he sensed I’d hit my limit. Ezra told terrible jokes that made everyone groan. Bubba and Remy traded stories about the old days, the hard days, the ways they’d survived when survival seemed impossible.

And through it all, Mary’s presence across the table felt less like a ghost and more like a bridge—fragile, uncertain, but spanning the gap between who I’d been and who I was becoming.

When she left three hours later, she hugged me at the door. A real hug, not the careful side-embrace we’d perfected over years of strained co-parenting.

Come back sometime, maybe even the bar? Mary chuckled.

Yeah sure, I mean, you are still gonna end up watching me drink myself to death, I was sure you were tired of that from before. I laughed, being half serious.

At this point, I probably would just start drinking with you, why fight it, right? She commented.

Yeah, not wise. Comes with old age. I chuckled.

After she left, after the others had cleaned up and said their goodbyes, after Phoenix and River had retreated to their room and the house fell quiet, I sat with Keira in the dimming light.

That was hard, she said simply.

Yeah.

But good?

Maybe, I admitted. I don’t know. It felt like ripping off a bandage that had fused to the wound. But maybe that’s what healing requires.

Maybe, Keira agreed.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”
― Margaret Mead

And for the first time in twenty years, I let myself hope that the distance between me and my daughter might not be permanent. That the woman who’d witnessed my worst damage could become something more than a painful reminder. That bridges, even ones built from wreckage and regret, might be strong enough to hold the weight of all we’d lost and everything we might still find.