At W’s family reunion, we sit inside an old firehouse at long tables covered with vinyl tablecloths. At the end of one of the tables, a woman with a laptop is trying to piece together the family tree.
This year, W and I are legally married. This year, my name can go on the tree.
W leaves me to sit with the lady with the laptop and give her my information.
She is gone a long time.
“Her software won’t let you be a girl,” she tells me when she returns.
“Story of my life,” I reply.