I have endured four birthdays since my son was seduced by the heinous trans cult at 19. On his twenty-third birthday, my husband was unaware of this special day we shared. I did not remind him about his son's birthday, as I knew it would heighten his daily pain and anger. So for the day that would have been celebratory in a sane world, I shouldered alone my tender grief. The birthday of my son is also my birth - day. Along with my son, my memory has been stolen of the joyous welcoming of my healthy infant son. As this essay elequently expresses, for PITT parents there are jolts of even more pain throughout the years that are visceral markers of our cruel alienation from a precious child with whom we once shared a loving relationship. Our primal ambiguous loss is beyond sad.