This autumn, you told me something more significant than anything you have ever said to me. You told me that you feel you are a woman in the body of a man.
I want you to know that telling me was one of the bravest things you could ever have done and I applaud you for that. Now, and always, you have my full support. In your journey to becoming a woman, I am with you every step of the way. Every new shopping trip, every makeup tutorial, every session with your GP and psychiatrist, I will be there in person or in spirit. Whatever you wish to tell me or not tell me, I am grateful to be a part of this most complex and emotionally fraught of processes.
I know that everything you are doing is heavily weighed and considered. I know you have agonised over this since you were very young, since that first experiment of trying on girls’ clothes and feeling more comfortable than you ever felt before. I know you were scared when a relative found you putting on a pair of her tights and you were relieved that she simply put it down to childhood curiosity. I know that all you crave is acceptance and understanding. And I give that to you wholeheartedly.
But there is a small, bitter seed inside me, and, try as I might, I cannot contain it. I want to know why you couldn’t tell your wife before she even became your girlfriend. I want to know why you proposed to her, feeling as you do, when your view of marriage is that it is all or nothing. I want to know why, even after marriage, you thought you could carry on with this illusion, going so far as to try for a baby.
Please understand that I know it was difficult. You wanted to keep this a secret until you died, but you just couldn’t any more. I cannot imagine how you must have been agonising, mentally and emotionally. But there were plenty of opportunities to be honest with yourself, your wife, and us.
When you told me, I was relieved for you. I was relieved that you felt you could be yourself. But that relief was tangled up with grief. And that grief was not for you. It was for your incredible wife and your beautiful baby. They have to start again. I know you will do your best to provide for them. But in this world of confusion, disappointment and heartbreak, they did not deserve this any more than you deserved your lifetime of pain hiding who you are.
I love you so much. But I also love my sister-in-law, and I love my nephew. And I can never stop being sad for them. I will be fighting for them, quietly and with subtlety, as much as I am supporting you and our family, navigating our way through this new dynamic.
Last year was meant to be our year. The year where, finally, our family would suffer no divorce, no terminal illness, no death. But we found ourselves in mourning again. Not for who you are, but for the life that has now passed, in a way.
When I see you again, I will give you the biggest hug. I will experiment with your makeup, and listen to what you have to say.
I will also do this for your wife, who holds a huge place in my heart.
Love, your sister
We’d love to hear your stories
• We will pay £25 for every Letter to (please write about 600-700 words), Playlist, Snapshot or We Love to Eat we publish. Write to Family Life, The Guardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way, London N1 9GU or email family@theguardian.com. Please include your address and phone number. We are only able to reply to those whose contributions we are going to use
