‘THE LIMBO OF BEING IN LOCKDOWN IS A STRANGE TIME TO MAKE A BIG DECISION’

will be the last time I see him.’ It wasn’t, but it was the last time I saw him as a man. I then found out he was transitioning to become a woman. His lifelong rejection of convention made this news not particularly surprising and, looking back, the clues had been there.

The next time I saw her – the first time I’d met my dad as a woman – we went out to celebrate. My father, who never had any money, would normally cook us lunch to save some cash. But that day was different. We took the bus and went to a restaurant where the staff knew her new name. Even though I’m fully supportive of that decision, it was a lot to take in. I drank a lot of wine. I listened carefully. I didn’t say much.

On the way back to the house, I had one question. What shall I call you? ‘I think it would be best,’ she said, ‘if you didn’t call me dad in public.’

I was broken. I’d spent a lifetime feeling like my father wasn’t quite comfortable with that label, and now she’d confirmed it. But more than this, my dad had disappeared, like he’d disappeared before – but this was his grand finale. As if in a puff of smoke, the man responsible for such destruction over the years had vanished. That person, who had never taken responsibility, would now never need to because he no longer existed. She’d already erased her old name from all her identification documents. On the train home I thought, if I can’t call you dad, how can you call me your daughter?

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I don’t remember quite how it ended. I stopped returning calls and texts, I presume, yet I’d receive letters. Once she asked if I missed having a father. How would I know, I thought. But the card I stumbled across was different. In it, she wrote that she was sorry if she’d handled the transition badly; she was sorry that I was upset and hurt. It was the first time she’d apologised. And that felt like alcohol poured on an open wound. She had apologised and still I was silent.

The limbo of being in lockdown is a strange time to make a big decision. The usual business of life means I ignore it; I can tell myself it would be too disruptive to contact her, that there are more pressing things to worry about. The boundaries aren’t the same, either – how much time do I have to make this decision? And how can I trust how I feel? I get emotional and weepy over a video of doctors clapping cleaning staff in a hospital; how can I tackle this emotional Everest?

What are strange times like these for, if not to help us see the world differently? She lives alone, she is over 70, she is a trans woman, which makes her vulnerable to abuse. Part of her distraction from being a good father was surely her own internal grappling with her gender identity. Is now the time for me, despite the catalogue of disappointments and the rejections, to be a better daughter? Perhaps I should be thinking life’s too short, and forgive a selfish person who perhaps will never see their own shortcomings, or maybe should never have been a parent to begin with. I’m sure many would tell me I might feel better for it, too – that I could heal and move on.

But part of me wonders if this no man’s land of unofficial house arrest is really the best moment to face a broken heart and stitch it back together. What if it’s just too hard in these already tough times? What if there’s not enough room in my little one-bed house for the spillage of hurt and anger I’ve been holding in for all these years? Or what if, when it’s over, and life resumes, I don’t feel the same way – the emotional pressure is lifted, I am fine and

I carry on as I have been?

I normally believe that actions have consequences, beds are made by those who have to lie in them. And I have believed this of my father – that despite the feelings of guilt I carry, my dad’s actions can’t be undone with age or pity or the harsh reality of loneliness. I have believed that she doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. Yet could this virus that has brought the world to a standstill seep through the emotional fortress that I’ve built around myself?

I can’t finish this article neatly. I can’t say I’ve made a decision. I sometimes wonder whether I could carry the regret if I never saw her again. Because how could you not be regretful about a relationship with a parent that was so drenched in sadness? I am not entirely sure what a truce would offer either. Would all be forgiven? Can all be forgiven?

What I do know is this: the virus has infected our lives in immeasurable ways and has put them under scrutiny. Relationships are examined and inspected in ways they are not when life is skating along, unthinkingly, at its usual pace. But how can we be sure of what we see in this fog of uncertainty? I’ve wanted to peep over that iron gate, check on my father’s health and wellbeing, but I’m not sure I’m ready to walk through it. Because who, in this moment, can be sure about anything?

…FASHION DIRECTOR SHELLY VELLA’S SPRINGTIME BLUES