There is a certain peace that creeps its way into my living room and relaxes my shoulders. It can come around a few times a month, or not at all, depending on my schedule and mentality.

On those days, I sit criss-cross-applesauce on the rug and shift through four boxes to pick out which puzzle I want to spend the next few days of my life on, because once I’ve started one, I can’t stand to let it sit unfinished for more than a week. 

There are only four boxes because I’m particular; I need a spark of connection, a feeling of familiarity and nostalgia. 

This time, I chose a birthday party. Eeyore sits by a table full of gifts and cake, Piglet is mid-jump, arms raised in celebration, and Christopher Robin looks on with a smile. Confetti rains down on them all and I’m taken back to a simpler time full of cartoons and moral lessons.

I’m not a patient person, but puzzles force me to be. 

Dad doesn’t play board games during the holidays. He’s the gruff type, born during a time when men either wore ties and carried suitcases or came back from a hard day’s work with stained clothes and gnarled hands. 

He’s worked hard for everything he’s got and paid the price of his body for it. It’s a price I’ll never have to pay, and sometimes I wonder if that’s made  part of me a disgrace to him.

I play board games when I’m home for the holidays. I spend hours on puzzles, and have a dedicated box for coloring books, markers, and pastel-colored pencils. I collect stickers and put them in a little dedicated book. On bad days, I curl up on my bed and cuddle a stuffed snail named Todd.

It’s been hard these past few years. We don’t talk like we used to.

He didn’t take it well when I came out as transgender, and had stubbornly refused to call me anything but his daughter until my mom had enough of it and knocked some sense into him. I wonder who he sees when he looks at me.

I don’t blame him. I’m unrecognizable to the me from three years ago. My body, my voice, my style. 

Sometimes I get so caught up in trying to prove to myself and everyone else that I’m a different person, that I get irked when something doesn’t change. Is it some horrific sin to keep interests I had when I was a woman?

I wonder if I’m taking five steps back every time I sit and color with special pastel pencils, or when I hold Todd closer on my darkest nights. If I had been born correctly from the beginning, would my dad have been disgusted back then too?

There’s an innate fear in me that I’ll never be a real man. I worry that strangers on the street can see right through me – that perhaps my voice isn’t deep enough, or a small strip of my binder is peaking out, or my face is too feminine. 

Do they only notice all I lack? 

After five years of puzzling, I’ve come to realize the hardest part isn’t pulling out the puzzle and doing it. A bittersweet tang of pride and dread strikes while I look at my finished masterpiece; I bet dad would be real proud. 

It’s a common feeling, this shame. How dare I like what she liked, to still carry a piece of her, when I’ve tried so hard to prove I’m not her anymore. 

I’m tired of using my past to judge my present.

It had been a long night when suddenly my phone pings just as the early morning light brightens the horizon. I’d pulled an all-nighter, and the stress of my future weighs on my shoulders, but I’d feel worse if I tried to relieve it. 

I hid Todd the Snail under my bed just past midnight. I worry that it’s too dark and cold down there. I hope he isn’t scared. 

My phone pings again, so I groan and grab it, because who on earth bothers anyone at 7 in the morning? 

Dad does, apparently.

“Don’t forget to take some deep breaths and relax and let it go. 

We’re proud of you.”

He’s changed our game of cat and mouse.

Maybe he felt my gloom from across the state, or maybe he’s spent this past month thinking about me as much as I’ve thought of him.

I haven’t destroyed my puzzle yet. It covers half of the living room floor but I’m not ready to let it go. Winnie the Pooh watches me with a knowing smile.

I find Todd wedged between two boxes. I apologize over and over, and then hug him tighter than I ever had before. I put him back in his spot, take a deep breath, and text back.