"Flynn wrote something as well." My aunts, uncles and cousins mumble and I wonder if they wonder why I have written a letter at 15, after several years of nothing. The clock ticks too loudly in my ears, but dad squeezes my shoulder. Uncle Bert tugs Luca on his lap and Luca squirms and plays with a plastic teacup.

Grandma gestures to the open space where Jessica has just read her letter. "Go on, sweetie. You wrote a New Year's letter?" I glance at dad and he smiles. It helps me find the steady ground in my mind and I fold open my letter.

Dear grandma and grandpa

A new year means new beginnings and wishes. I want to tell you about a new beginning and a wish.

I tried to make this rhyme, but with my skills, that'd be a crime. So it'll just be a letter, but it's for the better.

The rhymes sound stupid when I say it, but I power through.

I like hugs. I like fuchsia. The colour, the word. I like that fuchsia shawl you gave me, grandma. I like model cars. I love the first one I ever got and that you gave me, grandpa. I like running. I like cheesecake. I'm still the same. But I'm also not, because I learned something new.

I'm masculine and feminine and something in-between, but I'm not a boy or a girl. I'm something in-between or both or neither. I'm me, but I know a little better who that is.

I want to begin anew as me and I wish you'll begin this year with me. I want to end as a little more me, and I wish you'll end with me.

Your grandchild

Flynn

January 1, 2023

It's silent for a while and I keep my eyes down somewhere between the upper edge of my letter and grandma and grandpa's feet.

Grandma breaks through the ticking of the clock: "Aw, that was a lovely letter. Come here and give me a kiss, sweetie." She points at her cheek. Her grasp on my arms is surprisingly strong and she takes the letter from my feeble fingers.

When I want to back away because grandpa hasn't said anything, he speaks up: "Haven't you forgotten something?" He points at his cheek and smiles, the edge of a gold tooth glinting in the low light. I kiss his cheek and my hands start trembling.

"Now give me a hand and help me up, child," grandpa grumbles and I tremble even more because earlier today, he wouldn't have said "child". Now he envelops me in his arms and when he lets go, he rubs my hands. "You do you, kid." I nod and flee to dad, who puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes.

"See? It's gonna be okay," he whispers. I turn my head into his shoulder to hide my tears. "And if it's not, you know I'll try to make it okay."

I mumble: "Thanks, dad." He rubs my shoulder and when I can grasp onto reality again, I take a deep breath. Jessica and Elian are running around again and Luca is slamming the plastic teacup into uncle Bert's arm. He sees me looking and smiles. Then he shouts: "Ella? Is there still cheesecake? Get Flynn a piece, so they can celebrate being true to their courageous self!"

***

Author's Note: I meant to have this up earlier, but my exams prevented that. This was just a silly thing I didn't plan to write, but it popped up and then I had to.

I don't know if other countries have this tradition, but in Belgium (Flanders, at least), children (typically until they're about 12) write New Year's letters for their parents, godparents, grandparents, ... These are often pre-existing poems and texts, and we practised our writing at school, so we wouldn't make mistakes (they're handwritten). They then read them out loud at New Year (or whenever it's celebrated). I don't know anyone else who did it, but I continued to write them even when I got older, but with my own poems.