Mum's waiting for me at the front door when I get home from school. It's Tuesday, the last Tuesday of September, and the weather is starting to turn autumnal. My mood's turning with it, partly because I know Beth is going to uni this weekend. I'm going to miss her a lot. Mum hasn't talked to me about my gender at all since our conversation in the car the other week, but I've overheard her talking with Beth a few times. I'm certain Beth's softening her up bit by bit. And when Beth goes, so will the only person in the house I can confide in.

I wonder if I'll still be the same person when she comes home for the summer. Will she see in me the face of her brother, the brother who never truly existed, or will she see the face of her sister, still fighting to be born?

"Harry," says Mum, as I walk down the front drive. "Get in the car."

"Where are we going?"

"You have an appointment with Doctor Anderson," she says.

And there was me expecting nothing to happen. Expecting Mum to pretend my gender issues didn't exist, even to the point of not contacting the doctor. I can't hide my grin. "You booked one then!"

Mum frowns. "Of course I did. Look, I may not understand what transgender is. I may not believe it describes you. And certainly I don't believe that any amount of make-up and dresses can make a boy actually be a girl. But you're my child, no matter what, and I'm not a doctor. So who would I be if I didn't take a doctor's advice on this?"

I wrap my arms around her in a tight bear hug. "Thanks, Mum," I say.

"Come on, hop in the car," she says. "We have to be there in fifteen minutes."

*

I've always been a healthy child. The last time I even had a day off school with the flu was back when I was nine. And until recently—until I figured out that I'm actually a girl—that meant I had no real cause to go to the doctors. I'd paid enough attention to Mum and Beth grumbling, though, to know that they had a propensity for running behind schedule. So when we hit traffic on the way there, I'm not too concerned. Even when the clock in Mum's dashboard hits 4pm, I'm not worried. We've still got plenty of time, after all.

Sod's law, though, today is the day Doctor Anderson is running on schedule. When we eventually get to the surgery, a shade before quarter past four, the receptionist gives us a pursed-lip stare. "You should really try to keep time better," she says. "We would like it if people are on time for their appointments. It doesn't do any good to keep the doctor waiting around."

"We're not that late," says Mum. "There was traffic."

"There's always traffic. Leave earlier, or book a later slot." The receptionist scoffs. "As it happens, you're now late for this appointment, so I'm sorry but the slot is no longer available. I will make a note on your record; patients who make a habit of wasting our time with no-show appointments are asked to find a new practice."

I notice that Mum has turned red. "Now wait a second," she says. "My, er, spouse worked the reception here until a year ago, and the policy was fifteen minutes."

"And it's now 4.16," says the receptionist.

"It was 4.13 when we got here," says Mum. "The traffic didn't make us late. Your bad attitude made us late."

"Late's late," the receptionist shrugs. "It's all the same to the doctor."

Mum shakes her head. "No. Not acceptable. How dare you pin the blame on my son and I for this? He is going to see Doctor Anderson. As booked. And if I hear a peep about timekeeping from you again, I'll raise the issue with the CCG. It won't be the first time."

The receptionist visibly wilts. "There's no need to be rude," she says.

"You're right. There isn't." Mum's got a frazzled look to her now. The look she had the day she was sent home from work. "So why did you start with the rudeness? Harry, you go on through to the waiting room. I'll find you there."

*

I don't really have much time to take in the waiting room. It's drably lit and almost devoid of patients, and lined with those cheap metal chairs with blue plastic seats. I sit in one, immediately feeling the discomfort of the hard plastic on my bottom, while distantly I can hear Mum still speaking sternly with the receptionist. No sooner have I sat down than a man appears in the doorway. "Harry Carden," he calls.

This must be Doctor Anderson.

He's tall, broad in the shoulders, with short, greying hair. It occurs to me that I have no idea whether he's even going to be willing to treat me once I tell him I'm trans. New as I am to the world, I'm not blind to the amount of bigotry that exists. I'm sure there are plenty of people who would put their own hateful ethics before the duties of their job and of basic respect. What if Doctor Anderson is one of them? What if he stonewalls me, blocks my route to transition, simply because he doesn't believe trans people should exist?

His office is just down the hall. "Have a seat," he tells me, "and we'll begin." Doctor Anderson goes to his desk—against the wall by the door—and opens my file on his computer, while I sit nervously on a chair. He turns to me. "So, Harry. Tell me what I can do for you today."

I glance at the door briefly, then back to Doctor Anderson. "Well, I... I'm trans. Transgender. I was hoping you could advise me on how I can transition?"

Doctor Anderson nods. "I see," he says. "And I apologise. What name would you prefer?"

"Hannah," I say. "I'm Hannah."

"Hannah." He types something on my file. "Now, from your name I'm assuming this is a trans-feminine transition but just to be sure: what is your gender identity, Hannah?"

"Female," I tell him. "I mean, I'm a girl. Or I want to be, at least."

"If you want to be then you are," Doctor Anderson smiles. "Unfortunately I'm not a specialist, so there's only so much I can do off my own back. But what I can do is refer you to the local NHS specialist, and they will handle the initial consultations." He clicks his teeth. "But they are slow. I do not wish to presume your family's financial state, but if you are able to afford it there are a few options for private care. They can do all the consultations and give you your first prescription for female hormones, which I will be happy to continue thereafter. I assume you are after hormonal treatment?"

"I, uh..."

"You're hoping to have a body more in keeping with your gender identity?" Doctor Anderson offers. "That is to say: softer skin, breasts, hips?"

I nod, a little too enthusiastically perhaps. "Yes. All of those things, definitely."

"That's usually achieved through hormone treatment," he says, producing a pamphlet from a pile on his desk and handing it to me. "Now, Hannah, was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

I frown. "You mean we're done already? I thought I'd have to, you know, convince you."

Doctor Anderson shrugs. "I'm convinced," he says. "Hannah, you're here telling me you're a girl. That's all the convincing I need. The leaflet I've just given you will give you some advice, and as I said I'll put a referral through to the gender clinic. Oh, and a small piece of advice? Consider dressing up. Wearing stereotypically feminine clothes, dresses and skirts and such. Clothes don't make the woman, of course, but between you and me it'll grease the wheels at the clinic. Some of the paymasters have very old-fashioned attitudes about what a trans woman is."

I blush bright red. "I've already done that," I say. "Just once. But I plan to do it again. Dresses are cute."

"They are indeed," says Doctor Anderson with a smirk. "Unless there's anything else you wanted to discuss, Hannah, do you mind sending your mother in to see me?"

"My mother?" Why does Doctor Anderson want to see Mum? "What for?"

"A lot of young trans people have a hard time getting their parents to understand what they're going through," says Doctor Anderson. "So when a young girl like yourself comes out to me, I find it often helps to have a word with the parents as well. To try and explain how you're feeling." He smiles at me. "I'm sure it all sounds very scary right now, but you're young. You have your life ahead of you."

I make my way back to the waiting room, tucking the pamphlet into the sleeve of my jacket. I'm worried about who might see it—the front leaf states the subject matter quite plainly, and if the wrong person were to see the phrase 'So you're transgender' on my reading matter, I might find myself with awkward questions at school. Mum's waiting on one of the little blue chairs. The receptionist, barely visible through the window into her office, appears to have positioned herself in such a way as to avoid Mum seeing her. I wonder just how the chewing-out went. She looks up at me with a smile as I approach.

"How did it go, kiddo?"

Kiddo. It's not a gendered word per se—much better than her calling me 'son' or 'champ'—but I've also never heard her call Beth kiddo. It's a phrase Mum seems to reserve for sprogs she sees as male. I ignore it. "Doctor Anderson wanted to speak to you before we left," I tell her.

"Of course," she says. "You'll be alright here on your own?"

"Mum, I'm fifteen. I'm not a little kid."

She ruffles my hair in a distinctly uncomfortable way—not least because doing so reminds me of just how short it is—and heads off towards Doctor Anderson's office. And I, surreptitiously, begin to read my pamphlet.

*

Mum's with the doctor for about twenty minutes, during which time the waiting room fills, and when she returns she has a stony expression on her face. Unreadable. I don't ask her about it. The last thing I want is for her to broadcast some anti-trans rant to the eighty-odd other patients waiting their turn for appointments.

As we're on our way out, the receptionist decides to pipe up. God knows where she got the confidence or the audacity. "It says on the doctor's notes that your boy thinks he's transgendered," she says. "I suggest you get rid of those delusions. We don't allow trannies here."

I feel my stomach clench into a knot. It's the first time I've heard a slur directed at me, and I feel suddenly very ill. My ears are ringing. Faintly, I can hear Mum saying something, her fingernails digging into my shoulders. I make my way towards the car, walking as quick as I can, but my legs are like lead. They don't want to move at all. There are tears welling up inside me. Inside. Not out. No matter what, I cannot force myself to cry. Instead, I dry-sob as I lean against the wall of the medical centre.

In the fresh air, I suddenly realise Mum isn't with me. I look around for her, still trying to cry, still carrying around the weight of a heavy pit in my stomach, and see her in the reception room. She's stalking towards me with a face like thunder. When she sees me, though, she pulls me into a tight hug and kisses me on the cheek, just like she used to do when I was small. That gets the tears going. And when they start, they just won't seem to stop. It's behind a great torrent of tears that I follow her to the car.

As soon as we're in, she turns to me. "If anybody ever—ever—says that word to you, you tell me. And so help me I will have words to say."

I don't answer. I just let the tears wash over me, and bask in the limited relief they offer. The receptionist's words replay in my mind; they do battle against my memory of the other weekend, and of Jessie. Delusions. Cute. One or the other, it seems. But what if I'm wrong? What if it is delusions?

Then, I think of Olivia. Trans, just like me. Trans, and so pretty. So happy. She never seemed happy back in primary school; if trans is a delusion, then it worked a fucking miracle on her. Frankly, if trans is a delusion then the whole world needs more delusions.

But I really don't think it is. I think I just happened to encounter a hateful bigot.

After all, I have Doctor Anderson's words. I have my pamphlet.

Most of all, I have the knowledge that I am a girl.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't realise at first that Mum's not gone directly home. Not until she pulls into the car park outside McDonald's. I look up. "Mum?"

"I'm sorry about what happened earlier."

"It's not your fault," I say, shaking my head.

"And yet you deserve better than to have to hear shit like that. I thought you might like something nice for tea," she says. "My treat."

I nod. "Yes, please."

When we enter the restaurant, I find a table—not difficult; the place is pretty well deserted, and has been since they opened a new location closer into town—while Mum goes and gets us some burgers. We munch quietly.

"I've been thinking," says Mum, as she finishes the last of her chips. "I still don't think you should rush into anything, of course, but if this is the life you choose... well, I can't very well have a daughter called Harry, can I? I've never told you this, but when I was pregnant with you there was a time I thought I was having another girl. You would have been called Sophia."

I stop her. "I already have a name," I say. "I'm Hannah."

"Hannah." Mum repeats the name. "Hmm. I'd never thought about that. Okay. Hannah, then—but don't feel like you have to go through with this, just because you have a name picked out. If you ever start feeling like you'd rather be Harry after all, tell me straight away. I won't judge."

"I've got to be honest, Mum, there's no chance of that happening," I tell her. "But if it does, I'll tell you. And you know, I will need a middle name too."

She smiles. "Hannah Sophia Carden, you have ketchup on your face."

I rub my mouth with a finger, grinning. "Thanks, Mum."