It seemed gradual, yet came at hurtling speed, the loss. I told myself that it was natural and normal—part of growing up and being independent. The calls became less frequent, the visits further between. She met a sweet young African American boyfriend that made us laugh. They seemed like a pair of angels despite their out-spoken activism and intelligence. One day, Anna let me know that her boyfriend wanted to start wearing some of her dresses—and then that he was “trans”.

Things began to rapidly decline and become difficult. She became depressed, obese and angry. She was rude, sloppy and thoughtless. She started Citalopram. She told me to stop texting her so much. She said she was trans, wanted to take hormones and get top-surgery and that “she” was now “them”. She changed her name to a cartoon name, and claimed she finally felt like herself, an "FTM" gay trans man.

“Ok,” we said, “Just go slow, be careful. We love you.”