My mother said my old bedroom was packed with Caitlyn’s wedding supplies, so I slept on a folding cot in the garage beside bubble-wrapped centerpieces and
boxes labeled CAITLYN – TABLE DECOR. My duffel rested on the concrete floor, dust still trapped in its seams from places I had never been permitted to talk about.
At dinner, every seat at the main table was occupied. My mother pointed me toward a folding table in the corner beside a broken vent and half a slice of cold pizza.
A teenage cousin asked whether I was one of Caitlyn’s friends.
Caitlyn raised her wineglass. “Oh, that’s Erin. She was in the Navy once, I think. She never really finished. These days she does yoga, nonprofit work overseas, or
something like that. She basically just floats around.”
My father heard her. My mother heard her. My brother heard her.
Not one of them corrected her.
At Caitlyn’s engagement celebration in the VFW hall, the guest attendant couldn’t locate my name. She gave me a blank sticker and a marker. I wrote ERIN in one
corner and pressed it against my dress.
