As we left the store, Lucas’s tiny hand slipped into mine. “Thanks, Dad,” he murmured, his eyes finally showing glimmers of the joy that had been stolen from him. That simple gratitude reminded me of my true priorities—Lucas’s happiness and his right to be exactly who he is.

Later that afternoon, there was a knock at the door. I opened it, half-expecting to find one of my family members ready to unleash another round of lectures. Instead, it was my father, Frank, looking more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him. The usual sternness in his eyes was replaced with something akin to desperation.