He was her son. Her beautiful little boy. Her Trunks. She wouldn’t give him up for the world.
The first few years were the hardest; Bulma had to withstand the deaths and estrangement of her closest friends and family, but Trunks stayed by her side. He lit up those dark days when nothing seemed to go right. He was, for the longest time, her reason to live. She loved him with all her heart.
So when he looked uncomfortable when she called him her big brave boy at five years old, she was concerned.
“Sweetie, what’s the matter?”
And he looked down at his feet, shuffling them. He did that when he was nervous, and Bulma just wanted to hug his worries away.
“Mom... Do I... Am... W-What’s the difference between a boy and a girl?”
And Bulma was confused. She had taught him a little earlier the basic differences in biology, so this question seemed very off.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean... Do I have to be a boy?”
Oh.
Bulma had heard of this, but had never experienced it herself or, as far as she knew, known of anyone who had. But Trunks was looking so scared, so upset, that Bulma needed to say something, anything to him(?).
She knelt down next to him(?), ruffling his(?) hair gently. “Do you feel like a boy, Trunks?”
Trunks didn’t move.
“...Do you feel like-”
“I want to be a girl.”
Tears were welling up in his- no, her eyes, and Bulma hurried to wipe them away.
“Then you’re a girl. Whether you stand up or sit down when you pee won’t change that.”
And Trunks looked so relieved, smiled so brightly that Bulma wanted to cry herself. She might not know much about this...
“Does that mean I can grow my hair long and pretty like yours?”
...but they would figure it out together.
Because she was her daughter. Her beautiful little girl. Her Trunks. She wouldn’t give her up for the world.
