I have two children, born twelve years apart. The oldest just turned 34. Two sons, Romulus and Remus, named for mythical strong sons of a single mother. Like I hoped they would be. But it was not to be.

My baby boys, my precious wolves, have fallen to the sheep. My oldest, Romulus, who I called as a baby "my little Caesar" turned out to be more of a Nero. Ever since he could walk he was trouble. The instant he turned 17 he ran away, and I was almost relieved. Left to raise my precious little Remus, who was much more peaceful and well-behaved without his older brother's deviant behavior. No longer did I have to deal with backtalk, insubordination, selfishness, long nights and early mornings. But it was not to be.

Just a few years ago, Romulus came back on behest of his therapist. By now he was seven years transitioned, with the full effects of estrogen on full display for all around to see and hear. His new voice was grotesque to my ears.

Remus, of course, the innocent boy that he is, was enamored with his older brother. The two struck up a delightful friendship, though Romulus remained cold to me. Or so I thought. I thought that perhaps, despite his transgender identification, despite his drug use and swearing, Romulus could be a beneficial role model for little Remus, who was going through a tough time at college. Romulus even lived just a half hour away from Remus's campus. They could be great friends, brothers. But it was not to be.

Because Romulus led Remus to the same ditch that he is in. While once Remus was perfectly content to be a normal young man, little Remus became a "stunning and brave lesbian womxn" at the ripe old age of 20.