Chapter Text
Delilah had never considered herself a good mother.
She had always wondered what would’ve happened if she stood up to her husband sooner, if she had dedicated herself to protecting her daughter, Marissa, before the divorce was finalized. She lusted after a world where Marissa wasn’t lonely and frightened, where her transition hadn’t been marred by memories of a cowardly mother and volatile father. Delilah told herself that she was lucky to be able to tell someone she trusted so young, even if her father, who found out much later, wasn't as supportive.
The long work day had been over for only a couple hours. The apartment she lived in was relatively small, but satisfying regardless. The kitchen and living room connected with the foyer, stained grey oak flooring, and brown hardwood separated by what looked almost like a speed bump in the floor.
The kitchen itself had blue cabinets with turquoise countertops, and a stainless steel sink. The living room was one ancient brown couch with a gaudy plaid pattern, a television set which had seen seven or eight years of use by now, and a rectangular glass coffee table, covered in books and mugs in equal measure. The living room was bathed in the bronze light of a basic ash white floor lamp, while the kitchen had a florescent bulb captured in a ceiling fan. The latter did not see use until the day was out.
For now, Delilah sat on the tacky couch, in a wool sweater, trying to maintain proper posture. The cushions gave way to her weight, making it difficult to not recline. Her year of recovering from vaginoplasty taught her to take all the weight off of her pelvis when she sat, and that was a habit that she couldn't seem to unlearn.
Nearer to the front door was her daughter's room.
She hadn't been inside of it in a long while, long enough for the true stretch of time become indeterminate and unimportant.
Sometimes she fantasized about looking through the window to her room from the outside of the apartment, and she would have to tear her eyes away from the curtains. She was ashamed of herself every time, of course.
Marissa spent most of her time in her room, especially after the divorce. 'The divorce' was woven forever into her family, only brought up as 'the divorce', an unseen event which stopped all conversation in its tracks at its mere mention. It had only been two years since, and it would likely be many more before 'the divorce' would be brought up without so much deliberation. Or, had it only been one year?
It wasn't particularly important.
Delilah made her daughter overnight oats in advance, since she slept in so often. Marissa needed breakfast, or just to eat, and so she filled a glass jar with oats, chia seeds, milk, kefir, and to entice her to finish it, plenty of maple syrup. Besides, they were trendy, right? She figured at Marissa’s age, maybe she would appreciate that.
She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling silly. She set the concoction down in the fridge.
Regardless, the jar she had left for her would always be gone by late afternoon. If not, then they would be gone by the next day. There were mornings she almost wrote ‘For my daughter, I love you!’ on a note attached to the jar, but she always thought better of it. She didn’t want Marissa to think she was overbearing.
She didn’t want her to think she was corny either, but she feared that ship had long since sailed.
Delilah daydreamed about hugging her daughter, telling her how she made so much more sense as a girl, and kissing her forehead. They had been close, once, before the divorce, or Delilah had imagined they were close.
Her heart sank when she remembered she probably wouldn't want any of that, not anymore, and Delilah hoped to never push past Marissa's boundaries, and would never go against her wishes.
She could vividly imagine how difficult being alone at this time in her life must've been. Her mind trailed off, and a perfect ellipsis was set at the end of every thought, promising to be continued at a later date.
The sounds of her apartment chirped in unison, the soft buzz of electricity and the ticking of the kitchen's clock was a duet that played through out the day, and on towards forever.
Words came softly from beyond the bright white door to Marissa's room.
Delilah stood from the kitchen table, heart writhing sharply. Without a second thought, she rushed to investigate, her aching worry growing with every step. It was impossible to ignore her daughter’s voice. She couldn't remember the last time she had heard her speak.
No matter how quiet it was, it could not be drowned out by or join the symphony of her apartment, discordant to the ambience. Delilah slowed her pace, anxious to not alert Marissa with her footsteps.
She stopped in front of the door, fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, and listened to her for just a few more moments. The last thing she wanted was to make her daughter uncomfortable in any way, shape, or form.
"I hate this," Marissa whined.
She felt trepidation seep from the shadows under the doorframe. She couldn’t help but think, would Marissa really want her mother to overhear? Was it better to pretend not to notice?
Her mind cleared instantly as she heard her daughter whisper wistfully, "Please..."
“Marissa, sweetheart?” she called. It had been so long since she had used any cutesy names like that for her. Internally, she cringed, but it did not reach her face. Overstepping was something far out of her mind right now. “Is everything okay? Can I come in?”
Silence gave her a response instead. Delilah sighed. She wished Marissa would scream at her, just so she could be sure she hated her. It was a stupid thought, and she knew it. Even if she did hate her, they were still trapped in this apartment together, and neither had enough money to fund Marissa moving out.
She stood at the door for just a few more seconds, then began to walk away. There was no need to torture the poor girl.
“Mom?” Marissa’s voice was honey-sweet to Delilah’s ears. It didn’t carry very far, but she would’ve heard it if she was halfway across the world. When she turned around, she saw her daughter in a hefty graphic tee, and baggy sweatpants. Her round face was accented by her long, unbrushed hair, and a pair of headphones pushed down to her neck. It reminded Delilah of her own childhood. Certainly, they made better looking headphones nowadays. She had to admit, she looked cute like this, it was as if she were the bassist of an indie band yet to take off. “Sorry. Was I being loud? I didn’t mean to bother you, sorry. Sorry.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Delilah hesitated for only a moment before opening her arms for a hug, letting Marissa come to her. “I don’t care about that, I was just worried about you!”
Delilah watched as Marissa, her face stained a deep red, her eyes faring no better, clumsily fell into her arms. Her warmth spread to Delilah, heating her core as she buried her face in her chest. With her daughter in her arms, she was glad that she was that much taller than her, if only because she could make Marissa feel so small. Otherwise, she figured her height served less than no purpose.
Tears fell from her eyes, and she held her closer to her. The soundless weeping stung like a bruise. Delilah wondered how she could be so quiet.
“Can we go in my room? I don’t like being out here.” she sniffed. "I mean, it's just, not right now, I mean."
“Of course.” Despite herself, she felt excited to get a look at Marissa’s room. She promised herself she wouldn’t say anything if it was dirty, even if every article she had ever read on depression said you should keep a clean room, and her mother told her that to keep a clean mind, you needed a clean room—Delilah put a pin in her lecture, and let Marissa lead her beyond the threshold.
Inside her room was as messy as she had predicted. Though, to Marissa's credit, all her used plates were stacked, and all her laundry was neatly thrown into two separate piles. All of her art supplies and portable consoles were kept on or near her bed. Her desk held its plain computer, her keyboard smothered with dust. It was as if keeping them somewhere else would make her forget about her hobbies entirely, only her bookshelves, twinned in each corner of her room, were sorted properly. It was as neat as a messy room could be.
Delilah smiled, her eyebrows upturned as she saw the stuffed animals laid out neatly. A majority of them she recognized as random presents she had gotten her, peace offerings made during the time between her coming out and the divorce. She breathed out a warm, contended sigh, and sat down beside Marissa on her bed.
She winced as she noticed her posture made it look like she was a fox cub backed into a corner by an older predator. Suddenly Delilah remembered exactly why she was here.
“So, did you want to tell me what’s wrong?” she held her hand out to Marissa, who tentatively took it, making Delilah feel syrupy inside.
“Not really, Mom.” Marissa sounded as if she was choking while trying to speak. Her words came out quiet and marred. “I’m sorry, I kind of just wanted you to, uhm, I dunno, I guess.”
“Wanted me to what?” she cupped her cheek. She brushed her thumb across her cheek, and pushed her head gently so she could look into her eyes. Marissa didn’t meet her gaze, but didn’t shy back from her touch, either. Delilah took in the sight of her like she was savouring the juices of a fruit. “I promise you can tell me anything. I won’t be mad.”
“I dunno, Mom, I just,” she fell back onto Delilah, and leaned her head against her chest. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around Marissa, and felt the warmth in her core spread, a sensation that was familiar, and yet unfamiliar. “Can we just stay like this?”
“Oh, you poor girl.” Delilah cooed. Marissa’s shiver made her jump, but she melted back into her accordingly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Mom, do you,” there was a long silence between her words where Delilah almost felt herself zone out, “do you really think of me as a girl? Like, for real.”
“Honey, of course I do.” Delilah stroked her hair, then reached over to Marissa’s desk and grabbed her fine toothed comb to work out the knots. It was almost an unconscious decision.
“But— Ow! Mom!” Delilah mouthed a ‘sorry’ to her and continued to brush, more gentle this time. “I mean, for real.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just not sure I understand what you mean by ‘for real’.” Delilah sighed, and immediately relented. Her daughter was not the kind of girl who would respond well to roundabout prying into her feelings. Her hair was matted like a dog’s. “No, I suppose I do. You’ve spent your whole life with that, you called it a ‘wrongness’ some time ago, and, I guess nobody’s actually ever treated it like a wrongness. I, I saw it, though, you remember, right?"
Marissa shuddered.
Delilah continued, pretending she hadn't felt it, not wanting to make things awkward. "It makes sense that you’re a girl. I’m not very good at this, am I? You'd think I'd be better since, well, you know. I'm like you. ”
She couldn't say why she was having so much trouble. It felt as if she knew what to say, but the words escaped her as soon as she tried to speak them, like an exorbitant sandcastle washing away with the tide.
"I’m sorry Marissa, I’m trying to understand how to help, but—"
“Mom,” Marissa cried, “Thank you.”
Delilah felt her shift, then grip tightly to her chest. She sobbed. Delilah felt close to her for the first time in years. The warmth in her core began to feel fuzzy as Marissa came closer. She kissed the top of her head. Marissa's hands rested just under her breasts, and she felt as if they burned a hole through her sweater.
Their bodies grew hotter pressed against each other, or just Delilah's did. She couldn't tell. All she wanted was for her to be closer, even the hug didn't feel like enough. Suddenly, the barrier of wool between Marissa's hands and her chest was traitorously thick.
She searched for words to put it into, wanting to be gentle with herself even now. She tried to understand why she was so obsessed with being close to her, and the only answer she could think of, the one that had always evaded her, was that she was in love with her.
Delilah was already beginning to think of ways to hide herself away, to no avail.