Today I feel sad. I have been socializing lately, having drinks with parents who speak proudly of their young adult children who are off to college, or are starting promising careers. Other parents prattle on about adorable grandchildren and big family get-togethers at beach houses. I smile and politely ask for details, but I have nothing to add to these conversations. What would I say? My estranged son is still working a minimum wage job and poisoning his body with cross-sex hormones. I can’t confirm that he still has all his body parts. I will probably never have grandchildren, but maybe that’s better: I’ve read that trans-identified men who have children are often abusive narcissists whose B-cluster personality disorders are impermeable to therapy. We can’t afford a beach house, but who cares since there would be no family to gather there? It might seem like wasted potential that a young man whose IQ used to be in the 97th percentile now scrapes by working the cash register in a store, but after years of taking estrogen, his intelligence might be just average now, freeing him from the burden of high expectations.