As a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls. His momma was a conservative and still the most progressive person he knew - which is to say, not much at all. Poppa left when he was three, and he never remembered much of the man. Though he still said good riddance when Poppa never came home from the corner store, tiny toddler voice rounding the edges of his words. He was small and naive, stamped his little foot and stuck his chin out before being struck down by his momma.

Years later, Momma’s wrath has not waned.

“Don’t you understand, boy?” Momma scorned. “You’re the man of the house now, and you’d best take care of me if you know what’s good for ya!”

Nevermind her son was ten years old at this point. Nevermind he was a kid and his childhood had been stolen from him. Momma didn’t care that all he wanted to do was play dress-up with her high heels and dance with her in the living room. Momma just wanted the laundry done, wanted dinner on the table and the dishes scrubbed spotless without her lifting a finger.

In this way, his momma never changes. Same values, same beliefs, same rage. Always indifferent until she snaps.

“Momma, can I have a Barbie doll for my birthday? One with pretty long hair and a pink dress. Please?” he asked. He was eleven years old.

“Dolls are for girls, boy,” Momma growled. She spat in his face, told him to buck up and provide, it’s about time he got a job, he best not disgrace her like that ever again. Nevermind he was only eleven. Nevermind he was too small for work.

For his twelfth birthday, he asked for a gauzy white skirt, but he got the flat of Momma’s palm against his cheek instead. For his thirteenth birthday, he asked for a pink sequined purse, but all he got was three night sleeping in the backyard. For his fourteenth birthday, he asked for a flowing yellow sundress, but he got his shirt ripped off and ten whips of his own belt instead. For his fifteenth birthday, he asked for a pair of sensible heels, but all he got was a broken nose and a chipped front tooth.

By his sixteenth birthday, he stopped asking for anything. Just went to work and quietly ate a cupcake on his way home. Just scrubbed the floors while Momma lazed and forgot he existed, forgot what day it was.

By his eighteenth birthday, he ran away.

Five years later, on the day that he left, he materialized on Momma’s doorstep. His knuckles were white when he knocked, knees shaking beneath his weight but he refused to fall. He had been scared of her for too long and vowed to never let it consume him again.

Momma opened the door and frowned, didn’t recognize the form before her. There was a girl, maybe twenty three. She wore a flowing yellow sundress and a pair of sensible heels. Her purse was a soft pink, and her long hair flowed free. She was beautiful, but her neck a little too thick, jaw a bit too square, hips just too narrow. She looked familiar.

“Do I know you, girl?”

“Hi, Momma.”

Momma’s face morphed, confusion and then rage as she recognized her child. The chipped front tooth, the desperate eyes. Painful disgust flared in her face, rage and shame.

“You best take that off this instant before I beat you senseless, boy. That is no way for a young man to dress! What kind of disguise do you think you’re wearin’, huh? Think you can fool me. Always were a bastard child, now shape up before you damn yourself to hell,” Momma seethed.

The girl slid a hand into her purse, fist curling around her favorite Barbie doll. Not a boy, she thought. Not a boy, never a boy, don’t call me boy, that’s a curse. Calm and collected as she could manage, she shook her head. She tried not to be afraid but didn’t trust her voice, shook her head harder.

“Excuse you?” Momma started. “What makes you think you can disrespect-”

“Call me Jane,” the girl said.

Momma scoffed.

“Call me Jane or nothing at all.”

And when Jane walked away, she didn’t look back.