I woke to my daughter’s scream. At first I thought it was a nightmare, but then I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. The man I had been—the mother she knew—was gone. In his place stood a stranger with a woman’s face, smaller hands, softer frame. My chest tightened, not from fear for myself, but for her.

She was curled in bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit, eyes wide with terror. “Mom?” she whispered. Then she shook her head, confusion clouding her little face. “Daddy?”

I sat down beside her, my new body awkward on the edge of her tiny bed. “It’s still me,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steady even though it cracked higher than before. “I’m here. Nothing will ever change that.”

She searched my face, looking for the comfort she used to find in the mother I had been. Her hands trembled as she touched my cheek, as if testing whether I was real. Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Neither did I. But what choice did I have? The Event had turned the world upside down. Parents woke as strangers to their own children. Families were mirrors shattered and rearranged. And yet, in that chaos, love had to be stronger than fear.

I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her small body shudder against mine. “Listen to me,” I said softly. “The world may look different now. I may look different now. But I am still the one who tucks you in, who makes your lunch, who will always, always protect you.”

She clung to me then, tighter than she ever had before. And as her sobs slowed, I realized something: my body had changed, but my promise had not. My love for her was the one thing The Event could never rewrite.

Outside, the world howled with confusion and panic. But here, in this small bedroom, with her arms around me, I knew the truth.

I was still her parent.
And she was still my child.