The worst day wasn't when my parents kicked me out and burned my dresses in the yard.
The worst day wasn't any of the days when people spit on me, called me "it", or kicked me out of their shelters.
The worst day wasn't even the day when I was murdered.
The worst day was when I came back as a ghost, thinking the pain was at last over, and visited my grave.
"James Harper," it read. "Beloved Son."
[Explanation: This is a story about a transgender woman being rejected by her family and eventually murdered, and her family pretending in death that she was a man and they loved him.
This is meant to be pro-transgender, sorry if my lousy writing makes it come across otherwise. Also sorry if this explanation is obvious, just wanted to make sure this was coming across right.]