Later That Night

I was still quite shaken up when my daughter (in my wife's body) approached me later that night. She had some more questions about her job, but it was clear that I was distracted.

"What's wrong, honey-buns?" she said, and I pretended not to notice the flicker of disgust on her face as the term passed her lips.

My opportunity was here, and I seized it.

"It's Rose," I answered honestly, and - exactly as I expected - she took the bait. Who doesn't like talking about themselves, after all?

For the next few hours, we spoke about 'our daughter'.

It's hard to say, of course, but I feel like I did a pretty good job. Without being preachy or judgmental, I managed to convey my worries, the potential I saw in Rose. Without being too sappy, I told her how much I loved our baby girl, how I just wanted to be there for her - any way I could.

By the end of the conversation, I felt like I'd really made an impact. She'd started out guarded and defensive, but as she left for the couch in the spare room, I felt like she'd begun to actually understand that her mother and I weren't doing this to control her, or using her to attempt to correct our teenage mistakes; that we really cared.

In turn, she'd managed to voice some concerns I wasn't aware of. It was a tricky conversation to have through the layers of subterfuge that we had to navigate, but while playing the role of her own mother, Rose managed to expressed "her daughter"'s fears, her loneliness. Mary hadn't been imagining it; our daughter genuinely didn't have any friends she was close with.

No wonder this 'Spike' character had managed to get his claws into her. Alone, full of hormones, scared...she must have been easy prey.

What I'd done that afternoon had been wrong, I knew that, and I hadn't gotten any pleasure out of it.

But if it helped us get through to our daughter, it was absolutely worth it. I'd do anything for Rose. For Mary. For our family.

Anything.