When I was a kid, I used to play in my mom’s closet. I loved the feel of the hanging dresses, loved their elegance. I wanted to wear them, but a part of me knew I shouldn’t.

My best friend was a girl. She lived next door. Our favorite game was to sit at her mom’s vanity, looking at her makeup. My favorite were the lipsticks, chic designer bullets hiding rich color beneath.

The first one I bought for myself was cherry red. I only put it on when I was alone, and wiped it off before my parents came home. I kept it in a shoebox in the back of my closet.

One day, I got careless.

My mom saw the red smear on my chin.

The conversation was heartbreaking. My mother held me as we both cried.

“It’s okay,” she murmured into my hair, buzzcut when I dreamed of long tresses. “But only inside, okay? It has to be our secret.”

At home, Mom and Dad called me Carly. At school, I was Ben, which was on my birth certificate. The name hit me like a gut punch every time, but teachers are mandatory reporters. If they knew what I was, they’d call Protective Services. They’d take me away.

We were so careful. But all it took was one mistake.

I grew taller. Soon, I would be taller than my mother. I cried at night, as my voice changed, peach fuzz appearing on my upper lip. I just wanted to know what I would’ve looked like, if I was allowed to be me.

My favorite dress was blue. It flared at the waist, so you couldn’t see my lack of hips. I’d stuffed a borrowed bra with tissues, and the effect was imperfect, but I could see it.

I could see myself.

But I’d forgotten to draw the curtain. A neighbor witnessed it and called in a tip. That my parents were abusing me by letting me wear girls’ clothes.

My mother cried when the social worker stowed me in the back of the car.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she said, her hand against the window, mirroring mine. “It’s gonna be okay.”

The car pulled away, leaving her on the sidewalk. My father put his arm around my mother, and then they were gone.

The shelter was cold and crowded. Kids cried and talked in their sleep. I thought of my mother’s closet, her dresses hanging like curated art. When at last I slept, I dreamed of endless rows of skirts and blouses, high heels and purses. A labyrinth of couture, with no way out.