My Son Stopped Spending Weekends at Home, Saying He Was at Friends’ Places. Until I Checked His Backpack and Found Things That Made My Blood Run Cold…

Three months ago, my son stopped spending weekends at home. He said he was at friends’ places, preparing for exams, going to midnight movie screenings, just like all teenagers. He’s seventeen, and I tried not to smother him with control, I trusted him.

But something inside me started to worry. He became withdrawn, hiding his phone, answering questions tersely. He would leave on Friday evening and return on Sunday evening, tired, with dark circles under his eyes.

Last Saturday, I couldn’t stand it anymore. When he left, I went into his room. I saw a backpack by the wardrobe—the same one he takes with him on weekends. I opened it, expecting to find textbooks or clothes.

And I froze.

Inside were women’s clothes. Expensive dresses—tight, shiny, obviously stage costumes. High-heeled shoes, in his size. Makeup—professional, theatrical. Wigs—long and well-kept.

I sat on the floor of his room with these things in my hands and couldn’t understand. What is this? Why? Does he dress up in women’s clothes? Is it some kind of game? A fetish? Or something else?

That evening, I couldn’t contain myself. When he was about to leave, I followed him. Got in the car and drove after him, keeping my distance.

He arrived downtown, at a nightclub. Not a typical teenage one, but one where performers take the stage. He went in through the service entrance.

I parked the car, waited for an hour. Then I entered the club through the main entrance. I paid for entry and went into the hall. There was a stage, lights, music. The audience—adults, couples, groups.

And suddenly, he appeared on stage.

My son. In a dress. In full makeup, with a wig. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t know he was there. He moved gracefully and confidently. He was lip-syncing to a female voice—high and beautiful.

The audience applauded. People took videos on their phones, shouted compliments. He smiled, bowed, was entirely in his element.

And I stood by the entrance, unable to move. This was my child. The boy I gave birth to, raised, taught to ride a bike. And I didn’t recognize him.

When the performance ended, he went backstage. I waited for him to come out. Half an hour later, he came out—without makeup, in regular clothes, with his backpack. I approached him.

He saw me—and his face twisted with horror.

We stood on the street, under the streetlamp, silent. Then I quietly said, “Let’s go home. We need to talk.”

He nodded, without raising his eyes.

At home, we sat in the kitchen. I didn’t yell, didn’t accuse. I just asked, “Explain it to me. Please.”

He was silent for a long time. Then he began to speak—quietly, struggling to find the words.

It turned out it all started a year ago. His friend invited him to a drag show—a performance by artists in female personas. My son went out of curiosity. And realized that this was what he had been missing his whole life.

He began to learn—how to do makeup, how to move, how to sing. He practiced at home when I wasn’t there. Six months ago, he mustered up the courage and came to the club with an offer to perform. They took him.

Now he performs every weekend. They pay for it—decently. He’s saving for college, for the future.

I listened and didn’t know what to feel. Relief that it’s not drugs, not crime? Shock that he hid it for a year? A lack of understanding—why does he need this?

I asked directly, “Do you… want to be a girl? Is this about identity?”

He shook his head: “No. I’m a boy, I’m comfortable in my body. It’s just… creativity. Art. When I get on stage, I become someone else. It’s freedom.”

I tried to understand, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He looked at me with pain: “Because I was afraid. Afraid you wouldn’t understand. That you’d forbid it. That you’d look at me like… I’m abnormal.”

Those words hurt. So he didn’t trust me. Thought that I’d judge, reject him.

I took his hand: “Show me. I want to see how you prepare, how it happens.”

He looked at me in surprise: “Seriously?”

I nodded.

The following Friday, I went with him. Sat backstage, watched him transform. He applied makeup—carefully, professionally. Put on the costume. Became another person—confident, bright.

Then I watched his performance from the audience. And I saw—he was happy. Truly happy. On stage, he glowed, lived, breathed fully.

After the performance, he approached me cautiously: “Well, what do you think?”

I hugged him: “You were magnificent.”

He cried. Hugged me tightly, snuggling up as if he were a little boy again.

Now two months have passed. I sometimes go to his performances. I’ve met the other performers—they are diverse, each with their own story, but all kind, talented. My son has opened up to me—shares his plans, dreams, his fears.

But I still sometimes wake up at night and wonder—am I doing everything right? Should I support this or try to guide him onto a “normal” path? What will relatives, friends, the school say when they find out?

And most importantly—will I be able to protect him from a world that isn’t always ready to accept those who don’t fit the mold?

If you were in my place—would you support your child’s choice, even if it seems odd? Or would you try to “get them back on the right track”? Where is the line between acceptance and permissiveness?

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Three months ago, my son stopped spending weekends at home – he said he was staying with friends. I tried to trust him and not smother him with control. But he became strange – withdrawn, hiding his phone, coming home with dark circles under his eyes. Last Saturday I couldn’t take it anymore and checked the backpack he takes with him on weekends. I opened it – and was left speechless by what I saw…
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