So, rewind a little more than a year. I'd just started my new job, which is unimportant to the story apart from the basic nature: I get on the phone with people to help them open financial accounts, and I spend maybe 15-30 minutes helping them do so. It's complex, the computer systems I have to use are finicky, and it's laden down with a lot of bureaucratic red tape.
My very first day live on the job, I was a nervous wreck. There were so many things I needed to keep track of, and I was having to talk to people over the phone for the first time in years, which meant my voice dysphoria was at an all-time high.
Then I got this client. I don't actually recall his name and I couldn't tell it to you even if I did, so let's call him Bob.
Bob was elderly and had lived a hard life. He was transferring the contents of his pitifully small 401k from Walmart into a more accessible account, and I was helping him set that up. He came on the line cranky and more than a little paranoid. He asked me repeatedly if we were going to tell the government about his money, grumbled at me about the information I had to collect to get the account opened, made a few political statements with which I heartily disagreed. It was not a bad call, but I was definitely on edge.
Then it came time to set up a beneficiary on his account -- someone who would inherit the account if he passed away.
And he paused, and then he said, "My daughter."
I asked for her name and date of birth for the listing, and Bob told me. But then he went on.
"I want to tell you about her," he said. "She's very special to me.
"You see, I didn't always have her. Years ago I had a son. And my wife and I, we loved our son so much. He was our perfect boy. We watched him grow up, he made it into college, he got a job. I never went to college, you know? But he did. I was so proud of that.
"Then, one day, he disappeared. Stopped calling, stopped visiting, stopped everything. Six years, we didn't know what had happened to him, if he was alive, if he was dead, nothing. It was..."
He paused there, his voice creaking like it was about to break. I could see where this was going, and I was rapt.
"Then we got a letter," he went on. "From her. She told us everything, explained it all. That she was--" He paused, then said "transgender" as if it were a foreign word that he wasn't entirely sure how to pronounce. "That he'd -- she'd -- disappeared like that because she was afraid of what we'd say. What I'd say. Maybe what I'd do. But she missed us and she wanted us to get to know her as she really is."
He paused there, pretty clearly waiting for my reaction. I said something -- I barely remember what -- about how scary it must have been for her, and how hard for Bob and his wife not to hear from their child for so long.
"It was," he agreed. "But you gotta know this. I love my daughter." He said it with his whole being, with every bit of power and meaning that his thin, aged voice could hold. "I love my daughter, and I'm so proud of her. She's getting married next month, and I thank God for letting me live long enough to walk her down the aisle, just like every girl deserves. She is the light of my life."
At the end of a long, intimidating, tiring day, his fierce love for his trans daughter took my breath away. I'm always going to remember Bob -- remember how he wasn't perfect, wasn't progressive, didn't really know the etiquette or the language, but how deep and intense his love for his daughter was. How he told this to me, a stranger, as though daring me to say even the slightest rude word about her.
There is love in this world. Sometimes, it comes from the people you would least expect. It might not look quite like you think it will. But it is out there.
"I love my daughter," Bob said, intense and emphatic, and I will never forget the sound of his voice.
