Editor's Note: this story contains male-to-female transsexual content. If this is not something you want to read, please stop now.
*
Leslie waited impatiently on the taxi line with her bags. She had been patient for the two years since she'd made up her mind and began plotting this move; now that she was here, and so close, she was getting anxious. She hadn't seen her Dad in eight years since her parents had divorced when she was ten. And now here she was, in his city, and she was only a cab ride away. She hoped he wouldn't be disappointed at seeing her, and she felt a last twinge of guilt at not telling him she was coming. But she buried that feeling under the relief at being out from under her mother's bitter and hostile control.
He had kept in touch with her after she had moved across the country with her mother after the divorce, but her mother had won sole custody, and he wasn't allowed to visit. And her mother took every opportunity to remind her of that, from the very beginning. She called him vile names, called him a pervert, a freak. Leslie never understood why her mother couldn't see that children see themselves as a part of their parents, and that if her mother thought her Dad was a freak, then she must have thought that her daughter was half a freak, too. It had crushed her when she was younger, and inhibited her as she grew; the verbal abuse, the constant anger, the bitter regret that her mother carried with her, and spread to all around her. She had withdrawn, made friends slowly in their new city, and had poor social skills born of a low self image. It was only these last two years that she had emerged from her shell, making some friends, mostly with the wild kids.
The only bright spot had been the letters from her Dad. A first he had sent them to her Aunt, her dad's sister, and she would give them to Leslie when she visited, and would help her write back to him. Of course, her mother had found them, and blew a fit, and then Aunt Kelly wasn't allowed to come by anymore. But Diana was fourteen then, and was passing friends with the girl next door, and her dad would sent the letters there, to Leslie's friend, and their correspondence continued.
And oh, what letters they were! He would tell her of his life and his adventures; of the places he'd seen and visited, and of the friends he'd met. He spoke quite frequently of the many ladies he'd met, and how wonderful they were, how well they dressed, and the fun times they had going out together. And every letter he would tell her how much he loved her, and how sorry he was that they couldn't be together; that he missed her, and that he wanted her to visit if she ever got the opportunity.
At age sixteen she began looking at colleges. Her grades were spectacular, and she got a full ride at several prestigious schools. But she wanted to take a year off, she told her mother, see the world, travel the country. She had saved quite a bit from her waitressing job, and convinced her mother that after graduation she would make plans to travel. But secretly she planned to leave right after her eighteenth birthday, and the day after her party, after her mom went to work, she had called the cab for the train station.
And now here she was, come to see her Dad, after eight long years of letters. She hoped he would be as excited as she was. As the cab rounded the corner onto his street, she sat forward, craning her neck, trying to pick out his house. Was it the blue one? No, he wouldn't live there, She scanned the numbers, trying to estimate as the cab slowed. This one? The white one? No? There? The yellow one with the small porch; it was wonderful! She just knew that she was going to be happy here, and she knew that her Dad was going to love having her here, together again after so long.
She paid the cabbie, and took her bags from the curb, and trudged under their weight to the front door. It was Saturday afternoon; she had planned it so she wouldn't arrive while he was at work. She hoped he was home as she nervously pressed the doorbell and waited. What if he wasn't here? What if he had gone on one of his adventures, visiting friends in another city? She shifted anxiously from one foot to the other until her heart leaped when she heard the lock turn.
The door opened and a tall, blonde woman was there. "Oh, hi," she said demurely, a little disappointed that her Dad hadn't rushed out and hugged her. "I'm Leslie, I'm Harry's daughter-" she managed before the woman charged through the door and swept her into her arms in a strong bear hug.
"Leslie!" the woman exclaimed in a sultry voice, and then lifted her off her feet, and spun her around, saying her name over and over. Leslie was confounded and overwhelmed by the emotional welcome, and wondered, as the woman set her back down, if this was one of her father's lady friends.
"Let me look at you," she said, holding her at arm's length by her shoulders. "All grown up! What a fine, wonderful young woman you turned out to be! I knew it! I always knew! God, how I've missed you!"
And at those words, she looked, and saw. The woman WAS her father!
*
She woke up on the couch with a cold towel on her forehead. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the face of the blonde woman who had greeted her. And then she remembered it was her father! She blinked rapidly, and struggled to sit up, but he held her down.
"No, easy, baby; rest," he soothed in his woman's voice, and smiled as she relaxed back into the couch. "You passed out, I guess," the face observing her said. The woman's face. "I guess I kind of surprised you."
"Dad?" she asked. She had not been prepared for this. "You're -- you're a woman?" Her head swam again and she felt her field of vision narrowing.
"Breathe, Leslie; breathe baby," the woman's voice called to her through the fog, and then the shroud of unconsciousness receded, and she felt her breath catching, and then drew a deep breath, and another, and her vision cleared as her brain kicked back into operational levels.
"What -- what's going on --" she sputtered, "What are you- why are you dressed like that?"
"I'm sorry, honey, I never meant to hurt you." Leslie watched the woman's face soften, becoming sad, and she felt the love and caring she remembered from childhood, the emotions from his letters, and she knew it was him. But it was a HER! She saw a smile creep into the face then, gentle and understanding, and then her father stood and scooted her into the back of the couch, and sat on the edge, next to her, tucking her foot underneath herself in a very ladylike way. He gently stoked her arm. "I've wanted to tell you for so long," he said, his woman's voice steeped in emotion. "I can't even tell you how many letters I've torn up and thrown away over the years." She smiled wistfully down at her, and Leslie had a fleeting impression that she was seeing him as a woman, although she knew he was still her father. "I dreamed of the day that I would invite you here, that I would show you the real me, the woman I am now." She turned suddenly sad. "I never wanted it like this; I'm so sorry, Leslie."
"It's all right," she said, stopping short at calling him Daddy.
"Are you sure, sweetie?"
She thought about it for a minute before answering. It was an important question. Was she okay with the idea that her father lived full-time as a woman? She'd be staying with him; she couldn't very well go back home, and she didn't want to. She thought back to all the letters he'd written, the emotion he had conveyed, and realized he had been a woman all that time. She looked at him, his woman's body, his woman's face. All the love she had felt, all the love he had for her, all that time; it was there, inside, as she had always known it would be. It was the reason she had come here.
"Yeah, Dad," she said, sitting up and kissing his cheek. Her cheek. "I'm sure." They hugged, and she sat back. And she surveyed the woman sitting next to her, her elegance, her poise. She was pretty, and looked comfortable with herself. "But I'm a little jealous," she grinned. "You're a lot prettier than I imagined." She felt herself relax into the couch, then struggled to sit up next to her father, and took his delicate, womanly hands in her own, remembering holding them when she was younger, how much larger than her own the slender fingers had been. "I figured I'd be the pretty one in the house!" she blurted, and laughed, as she would with a girlfriend. "But I've got some competition!"
Her father smiled lightly and brushed a lock of hair from Leslie's face, tucking it behind her ear. "You're beautiful, Leslie. You've grown into a lovely young woman."
It was a few weeks later, while they were eating dinner, that Leslie asked the question. She had settled in, and they had become accustomed to having each other around; he, getting used to having someone else in the house, and having his daughter there, she, getting used to a new city, and new house, and growing less resistant to the idea of her father as a woman. A bigger adjustment, however, was the concept of having a female influence living in the same house who was not hostile and bitter, who was supportive and loving and caring, and uncritical. She had no doubt that her mother loved her, but her bitterness and regret was always close to the surface, and she made no bones about blaming her father for everything wrong in her life, even after all the years that had passed. Having her father here, as a woman, and sharing his house; well, she had thought frequently over the last week, it felt just so right. Like it was the life with her mother she had always wanted, but never had.
Harriet, that was the name she used now, had been living as a woman since her Mom had split and taken Leslie across the country, she learned over the long late-night conversations. He's begun wearing women's undergarments while they were still married, and eventually began dressing as a woman in private. Harriet had explained that Leslie's mom had been tolerant at first, but soon lost patience when she saw it was not just a phase of kink. It was what had broken them up, she sadly reminisced, and regretted that they couldn't come to a solution that would keep them together. After the split, he had moved, began living full time as a woman, changed her name and her job, and had been happily living as Harriet ever since. His revelation of their lives together when she was young put a new perspective on the names her mother had called her father, and she felt a better understanding of her mother's situation, although she still could not reconcile how she held on to that hostility for so long.
But now, here was a woman who loved her, and welcomed her, and was happy with herself, and with Leslie. She had begun thinking of her as a woman, not just seeing her as one. When she thought of things her dad said to her, she used the feminine 'she' in her mind. But it wasn't just getting used to her dad being a woman; it was their connection together, their bond with each other, their acceptance of the other's life and wants and needs. She felt a real sense of belonging here, a sense that she was home, and loved.
She'd considered asking the question several times, but had backed off, telling herself it was silly, or too soon. Looking across the table at the lovely woman across from her, and knowing the feelings they had shared for each other, her comfort level finally reached a point where she felt it was appropriate to ask. She took a sip of her wine, and rested her hands on the table.
"Dad," she said plainly, "can I call you Mom?"
She watched as the face across from her showed surprise, and then broke into a wide, welcoming smile. "Leslie, sweetie," she replied, standing and coming around the table, "I would love that!" She scooted down next to Leslie, demurely keeping her legs together in her skirt, and took her hands in her own. "You know your mother loves you, Leslie, and I could never replace her; would never want to."
"I know," she agreed. "But I think I would feel better calling you Mom. You know, 'cause you are a woman, right?" She explained, as she had said so many times in her letters, what life was like with her mother, and expressed how wonderful it felt to be living with a woman, her father, who was supportive and loving, and not afraid to show it.
