The Mask Slips
from The Chronicles
Jodi sat at her desk, staring at the blank email draft for what felt like hours. The cursor blinked rhythmically, almost mockingly, as she struggled to find the right words. After her last family gathering, she couldn't ignore it anymore – the subtle ways her sister Megan still treated her identity as optional, something to be acknowledged only when convenient.
The final straw had been overhearing Megan on the phone with their father, casually referring to Jodi by her deadname. The sound of it had stopped her cold in the hallway, a name she'd buried years ago being resurrected behind her back.
With a deep breath, she began typing.
My Dear Sister,
I've been thinking a lot about what it means to truly accept someone. Not the polite nods and correct pronouns when I'm in the room, but the deeper acknowledgment of who I am, even when I'm not present to witness it.
I overheard you speaking with Dad last week. You called me by a name that no longer exists – at least, it shouldn't. It made me realize something important: I need you to use my name consistently, not just when I'm around to hear it.
This isn't about controlling what you say. It's about whether you truly see me as who I am or merely accommodate me when I'm present. True acceptance doesn't change depending on the audience.
I understand Dad struggles, but your choice to use my deadname with him suggests your acceptance has conditions too. I need to know if that's the case.
With love and hope, Jodi
Megan's response came faster than she expected, buzzing her phone while she was still at work.
Dear Jodi,
I'm sorry you overheard that conversation. I do accept you, completely and without reservation. But I've made a conscious choice not to have arguments with Dad about this. You know how he is. When I speak with him privately, I sometimes use your deadname to avoid conflict. I don't do it to hurt you, but to maintain peace with Dad in his final years.
This isn't about my acceptance of you – it's about navigating a difficult situation with someone who refuses to change. I hope you can understand that.
Love, Megan
Jodi read the email three times, feeling a familiar ache spread through her chest. Separate yet connected, the twin pains of disappointment and validation – disappointment in her sister's response, validation that her instincts had been right all along. The acceptance was indeed conditional.
That evening, she called Megan.
“I got your email,” Jodi said after they exchanged greetings. “I need to be clear about something. When you use my deadname with Dad, you're not being neutral. You're actively invalidating who I am.”
“That's not fair,” Megan responded, her voice tightening. “I'm not trying to invalidate you. I'm trying to avoid unnecessary arguments with Dad. You know how he gets.”
“I understand wanting to avoid conflict, but this isn't just about Dad's comfort. It's about whether you truly see me as Jodi.”
“Of course I do! But I have to live in reality, and the reality is that Dad won't change. When I talk to him, I make a choice to use the name he's comfortable with to keep the peace.”
Jodi took a deep breath. “That's exactly my point. You're making a choice between his comfort and my identity, and you're choosing his comfort.”
“I'm not choosing sides,” Megan protested. “I'm trying to navigate a difficult situation without causing unnecessary pain.”
“But you are causing pain – to me. Every time you use that name, you're saying my identity is negotiable depending on who you're talking to.”
“That's not what I'm doing,” Megan said, her voice rising slightly. “I accept you completely. But I can't control Dad, and I don't want every conversation with him to turn into a battle.”
“I'm not asking you to control him or battle with him. I'm asking about your choices when you speak to him. There are ways to refer to me without using either name if necessary.”
Megan sighed. “Look, I feel like you're trying to dictate what I can say in private conversations. That seems controlling to me.”
The word hung between them like a physical barrier. Controlling. Jodi felt her throat tighten.
“This isn't about control,” she said carefully. “It's about respect. Would you use a racial slur about someone when talking to a racist, just to keep the peace?”
“That's completely different,” Megan responded immediately. “Using your old name isn't a slur. It's just what Dad knows you as.”
“It's not different to me,” Jodi said. “That name represents a person who never really existed. Using it denies who I actually am.”
“I think you're being unfair,” Megan said. “I've supported you in every way I can. I use your name and pronouns with everyone else. I've defended you to Dad countless times. But I can't fight that battle every single time I speak to him.”
“You don't have to fight. You could simply say 'my sister' without using any name.”
“And have him correct me every time? That would just make things more tense.”
Jodi felt the familiar weight of compromise settling on her shoulders. Always her. Always the one expected to bend, to understand, to accept less than full recognition.
“So your comfort with Dad is more important than consistently acknowledging who I am?”
“That's not what I said,” Megan replied, frustration evident in her voice. “You're twisting my words. I'm trying to be practical about a difficult situation.”
“Being practical shouldn't require denying who I am.”
“I'm not denying who you are! I'm just... adapting to the circumstances.”
“Those adaptations have consequences, Megan. They tell me that your acceptance is conditional.”
“This is ridiculous,” Megan said. “I've done everything to support you. I'm not going to let you make me feel guilty about how I handle conversations with Dad.”
Jodi closed her eyes. “I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I'm trying to help you understand why this hurts me.”
“I understand you're hurt, but I think you're being unreasonable. What I say in private conversations is my business.”
“Even when what you say invalidates who I am?”
“I'm not invalidating you by occasionally using your old name with Dad to avoid an argument!”
The conversation continued in circles, with Megan repeatedly defending her right to “handle Dad in my own way” and Jodi trying to explain why using her deadname was fundamentally an act of erasure, regardless of the intention behind it.
Finally, Megan said, “I think we need to agree to disagree on this. I love you and accept you, but I don't think you can dictate what name I use when talking to Dad privately.”
“This isn't about dictating,” Jodi said, feeling exhaustion settle into her bones. “It's about whether you truly see me as who I am in all contexts, not just when it's convenient.”
“Of course I see you for who you are. But I also see Dad for who he is, and I'm trying to minimize hurt all around.”
“Except my hurt doesn't seem to factor into your calculation.”
“That's not fair,” Megan said. “Look, I think we should drop this. We're just going in circles.”
“We're going in circles because you're not acknowledging the real issue. When you use my deadname with Dad, you're participating in my erasure. That's not acceptance.”
“I disagree. I accept you completely. What I say to Dad doesn't change that.”
“It absolutely does,” Jodi insisted. “If you accepted me completely, you wouldn't toggle between names depending on who you're talking to.”
“I think this conversation isn't productive anymore,” Megan said. “I understand you're upset, but I don't agree that I'm doing anything wrong.”
“So we're at an impasse,” Jodi said quietly.
“I guess we are.”
After they hung up, Jodi sat in the gathering darkness of her apartment. The mask her sister wore – the mask of acceptance – had slipped, revealing the conditional nature of that acceptance. It wasn't about control or dictates. It was about whether Megan truly believed Jodi was who she said she was, or whether she saw Jodi's identity as something optional, to be acknowledged or discarded depending on convenience.
Three days later, Jodi received another email from Megan.
Jodi,
I've been thinking about our conversation. I want to clarify something – I do truly accept you. But I feel like you're asking me to choose between hurting you or hurting Dad, and that's not fair. I'm trying my best to navigate a complicated situation.
You say I'm not accepting you if I ever use your deadname, but I don't think that's true. I can fully accept you while still choosing to avoid conflict with Dad in private conversations.
I hope we can agree to disagree on this and move forward. I don't want this to damage our relationship.
Love, Megan
Jodi read the email twice before setting her phone down. Megan still didn't understand – or perhaps didn't want to understand. The “agree to disagree” approach framed the issue as a simple difference of opinion rather than a fundamental matter of respect and recognition.
She drafted her response carefully.
Megan,
I appreciate you reaching out, but I think there's still a disconnect in how we're seeing this situation.
This isn't about choosing between hurting me or Dad. It's about whether you truly see me as Jodi in all contexts, or whether my identity becomes optional when it's inconvenient.
When you use my deadname with Dad, you're not being neutral. You're actively participating in denying who I am. There are ways to refer to me without using either name if necessary – “my sister” works perfectly well.
The issue isn't that you're trying to avoid conflict with Dad. The issue is that you're willing to compromise my identity to do so. That suggests you see my identity as less real, less fixed than his comfort.
This isn't something we can “agree to disagree” on because it's not a matter of opinion. It's about whether you truly accept who I am or merely accommodate me when it's convenient.
I love you, but I need you to understand why this matters so deeply to me.
Jodi
Megan's reply came the next day.
Jodi,
I'm trying to understand, but I feel like you're being unreasonable. What I say in private conversations with Dad is my business. You're trying to control my speech in situations that don't even involve you directly.
I've supported you in countless ways. I use your name and pronouns with everyone else. I've defended you when others haven't. But apparently none of that matters if I occasionally use your old name with Dad to avoid an argument.
This feels like you're giving me an ultimatum – either I never use your deadname in any context, even private ones with Dad, or I don't truly accept you. That's not fair.
I'm sorry you're hurt, but I don't think I'm doing anything wrong by adapting how I refer to you when speaking privately with Dad.
Megan
The words stung, but they also clarified something for Jodi. The issue wasn't simply about a name. It was about whether Megan saw Jodi's identity as fundamentally real – as real as her own, as real as their father's discomfort.
That evening, Jodi called Megan again.
“I got your email,” she said when Megan answered.
“And?” Megan's voice was guarded.
“I think we need to be clear about what's happening here,” Jodi said. “This isn't about controlling your speech. It's about whether you truly see me as who I am.”
“Of course I see you as who you are,” Megan said, her frustration evident. “I've supported you from day one.”
“But support that changes depending on who you're talking to isn't real support. It's performance.”
“That's not fair. You're ignoring everything I've done to support you because of this one issue.”
“I appreciate everything you've done,” Jodi said carefully. “But this 'one issue' reveals something important about how you see me.”
“No, it doesn't. It reveals something about how I handle difficult conversations with Dad. That's all.”
“The fact that you're willing to use my deadname with him tells me you don't fully see it as a deadname. You see it as an alternate name I might still have some connection to.”
“That's not true,” Megan protested. “I know you're Jodi. I just use the other name with Dad because it's easier.”
“Easier for whom? Not for me. Not for my existence.”
“You're not even part of those conversations!”
“But I am, Megan. You're talking about me. You're referring to me. Just because I'm not physically present doesn't mean I'm not involved.”
Megan sighed. “Look, I feel like you're trying to control me. I don't tell you what words you can and cannot use when you talk to people privately.”
“This isn't about control. It's about respect. Using my deadname denies who I am, whether I hear it or not.”
“I disagree. I think you're being unreasonable and controlling.”
The word hung between them again. Controlling. As if Jodi's request for basic respect was an attempt to dominate her sister.
“Let me ask you something,” Jodi said. “If Dad were an anti-Semite and objected to your husband being Jewish, would you refer to Mark with slurs when talking to Dad alone, just to keep the peace?”
“That's completely different,” Megan said immediately. “Using your old name isn't a slur.”
“It is to me,” Jodi said quietly. “It denies who I am just as fundamentally.”
“I think you're being dramatic. It's just a name.”
“It's not just a name. It's a denial of my existence.”
“Oh, please,” Megan said, her voice hardening. “Using your old name with Dad doesn't deny your existence. You're still here, aren't you?”
The callousness of the response took Jodi's breath away.
“Wow,” she finally managed. “I don't think you understand at all.”
“I understand that you're asking me to choose between hurting you or hurting Dad, and then making me the bad guy when I try to find a middle ground.”
“There is no middle ground on whether I exist as Jodi or not.”
“This conversation isn't productive,” Megan said. “You've made up your mind that I don't accept you because of this one thing, and nothing I say will change that.”
“That's not true,” Jodi said. “I'm trying to help you understand why this matters so much.”
“And I'm trying to help you understand that what I say in private conversations with Dad is my business. I'm not going to let you dictate that.”
“So we're still at an impasse.”
“I guess we are,” Megan said. “Look, I love you, but I think we need to drop this. I accept you. I use your name and pronouns with everyone else. If that's not enough for you, I don't know what to say.”
After they hung up, Jodi sat in silence, feeling the weight of realization settle on her shoulders. The acceptance she'd thought was unconditional had limits after all. The mask her sister wore – the carefully constructed facade of complete acceptance – had slipped, revealing the conditional nature beneath.
It wasn't about control or ultimatums. It was simpler and more profound than that. It was about whether Megan truly believed Jodi was who she said she was, whether her identity was as solid and real as anyone else's, or whether it was something optional, to be acknowledged or discarded depending on convenience.
The answer, painful as it was, seemed clear.
Weeks passed without communication between them. Jodi threw herself into work, into friends who saw her completely, without reservation or condition. She thought often of Megan, of the gulf that had opened between them – a gulf created not by Jodi's request for respect, but by Megan's unwillingness to extend that respect consistently.
Then their father had a health scare – nothing serious in the end, but enough to prompt Megan to reach out again.
Jodi,
Dad's okay, but this made me think about our situation. Life is too short for this distance between us. I love you and accept you, even if we disagree about some things. Can we please move past this?
Love, Megan
Jodi read the email several times, feeling the familiar mix of love and frustration. Megan still didn't understand – or didn't want to understand – that this wasn't a simple disagreement they could agree to differ on. It was about whether Megan truly saw Jodi as who she was.
Her response was brief.
Megan,
I'm glad Dad is okay. I love you too, but I don't think we can just “move past this” without addressing the core issue. This isn't about disagreement. It's about respect and recognition.
When you use my deadname with Dad, you're making a choice that invalidates who I am. That's not acceptance, no matter how many times you say it is.
I'm not asking you to control Dad or fight with him. I'm asking about your choices when you speak to him. You could refer to me as “my sister” without using any name at all.
This matters deeply to me because it reveals whether you truly see me as who I am in all contexts, or whether my identity becomes optional when it's inconvenient.
Jodi
Megan's reply was almost immediate, and Jodi could feel the frustration radiating from every word.
Jodi,
I've tried to understand your perspective, but I feel like nothing I do is good enough. I've supported you in countless ways, but apparently none of that matters because of this one issue.
I don't agree that using your old name with Dad invalidates who you are. That's your interpretation, not objective fact. I see you as Jodi. I accept you as Jodi. What I say in private conversations with Dad doesn't change that.
I feel like you're trying to use me to force Dad to accept you, and that's not fair. I can't control his beliefs or behavior.
I think this conversation has reached its end. I love you, but I'm not going to let you make me feel guilty about how I handle private conversations with Dad.
Megan
The email felt like a door closing. Megan had made her choice – Dad's comfort over Jodi's identity. The mask of acceptance had not just slipped; it had fallen away entirely, revealing the conditional nature of that acceptance.
It wasn't about using Megan to force Dad to accept her. It was about whether Megan herself truly accepted her, whether that acceptance was real and consistent or merely a performance that changed depending on audience.
Jodi drafted one final email.
Megan,
I understand now. Your acceptance has conditions and limitations. It exists when convenient and disappears when difficult. That's not acceptance at all – it's tolerance at best, and even that has its limits.
This was never about using you to force Dad to accept me. It was about whether you truly see me as who I am in all contexts, not just when I'm present or when it's easy.
You've made your choice clear. Dad's comfort matters more to you than consistently acknowledging my identity. That's your right, but please don't call it unconditional acceptance or support.
I need space to process this revelation. Please respect that boundary.
Jodi
Months passed. Jodi built her life around people who saw her completely, without reservation or condition. The absence of Megan was a dull ache that never quite disappeared, but it was preferable to the sharp pain of conditional acceptance, of knowing her sister's recognition of her identity was something that could be turned on and off like a switch depending on convenience.
Then came the call. Their father had died peacefully in his sleep.
The funeral was a blur of faces, some familiar, some not. Jodi stood at the back of the church, separate from the family gathering at the front. She had come to honor her father in her own way, not to pretend at family unity that didn't exist.
After the service, Megan approached her, eyes red from crying.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Dad would have appreciated it.”
Jodi nodded but said nothing.
“Can we talk?” Megan asked. “Please? Life's too short for this distance between us.”
“What would we talk about?” Jodi asked quietly. “Has anything changed?”
“Everything's changed,” Megan said. “Dad's gone. There's no reason for us to be at odds anymore.”
And there it was – the admission Jodi had both expected and dreaded. With Dad gone, Megan saw no barrier to accepting Jodi fully. The condition that had limited her acceptance had been removed.
“So now you'll use my name consistently?” Jodi asked. “Now that it's convenient?”
“It's not about convenience,” Megan protested. “It's about... circumstances changing.”
“The circumstances haven't changed, Megan. I'm still the same person I was before Dad died. The only thing that's changed is that now it's easy for you to acknowledge that.”
“That's not fair. I always accepted you.”
“No,” Jodi said quietly. “You accepted parts of me, when it was convenient and didn't require any discomfort on your part. That's not acceptance. It's tolerance with conditions.”
“So what now?” Megan asked, a hint of frustration breaking through her grief. “We just stay estranged forever because of this?”
Jodi looked at her sister – really looked at her. She saw the grief, the confusion, the genuine desire for reconciliation. But she also saw the fundamental misunderstanding that still existed between them. Megan still didn't understand – or didn't want to understand – that her conditional acceptance had revealed something important about how she saw Jodi's identity.
“I don't know what happens now,” Jodi said honestly. “But I do know that acceptance that only appears when it's convenient isn't acceptance at all. It's performance.”
“That's not fair,” Megan repeated, but the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“Maybe not,” Jodi conceded. “But it's true.”
She turned and walked away, leaving Megan standing alone in the emptying church. The mask of acceptance had fallen away entirely, revealing the truth beneath. It wasn't about control or ultimatums or using Megan to get to Dad. It was simpler and more profound than that.
It was about whether Megan truly believed Jodi was who she said she was – whether her identity was as solid and real as anyone else's, or whether it was something optional, to be acknowledged or discarded depending on convenience.
The answer, painful as it was, had been made clear.
As Jodi walked to her car, she felt a strange mixture of grief and liberation. Grief for the relationship that could have been, liberation from the pretense of an acceptance that had always been conditional.
The mask had slipped, then fallen, then shattered. What remained was truth – painful, but clearer than it had ever been before.
