I come home, and Faith is there, sitting on the couch, reading.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

“The Logic of Misogyny by Kate Manne,” she says.

This, I love her for, because The Logic of Misogyny is one of my favorite books. Kate Manne did an excellent job. I hope that everyone reads it, even people reading this.

I sit.

“Dear, I’ve changed my name, begun hormone therapy, and identify as she.”

She looks up from her book.

“About time,” she says.

I pause. She reads. These things are silent.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier.” That’s me.

She closes her book. “I love you for it,” she says. She looks at me. I look at her. She leans over to me and kisses me, softly. Our lipstick mixes together. We pull our lips apart, slowly, our lower lips hanging onto each other until our breath breaks them apart. We smile.

“Fixes pretty much everything,” I say.

That’s not a joke. I’m aware that that statement on its face seems stupid, because there is, in some philosophies: 1) nothing to fix; 2) nothing that can fix everything; and 3) suffering caused by desiring a fix for everything. But, it’s true. It turns a world of depression into a world of joy. It turns sick water into clear healthy water. It lets me walk, instead of dragging myself along. I can see myself happy. I can see myself living. I can see myself having a future, instead of always thinking that there is nothing left for me but to die. Yes, I’ll die. Yes, I’ll get old. Yes, I’ll get sick. Yes, I’ll feel pain. Yes, I will get hurt. Yes, terrible people will say terrible things to me. Yes, I’ll be angry, and make mistakes, and regret, and cry, and puke, and regret, and love, and live like I always have been. But, I will, for once, and forever, have stepped into myself, and it is not possible to lose that.

“Glad to be here for it,” she says.

As if you couldn’t be.

Here.

Faith.