“Mom, are you mad?” She handed me another stack of dirty plates. “I just don’t agree, hon. I don’t think it’s true.” I took the plates and glanced up quickly to her earnest eyes. “Mom, it’s who I am. Don’t you see it? It totally makes sense.” She picked up a handful of  dirty silverware. Of course I saw it. In the clothes she wore, the books she read, the memes she laughed at. Her identity had been uncoiling in front of us for months. It scared me. “Honey, you’re in 6th grade! I think it’s, like, a phase, you know? I don’t think you have to make a declaration for your whole life right now.” I scrubbed a platter with anxious vigor. “Mom. Don’t tell me I’m going to outgrow it. This is who I am.” She stopped clearing the table and looked at me. “Honey, please. It can’t be true. Why would anyone choose that for themselves?” I looked down at the sink. “Mom, I didn’t choose it. It’s how I’m made.” I turned off the …