I, James, 14-years-old, had voluntarily swapped bodies with my Mom. I had more than a passing curiosity about what it would be like to step into her shoes, but I never expected to literally do so.

It started, absurdly, in our attic. The attic was a place I’d spent countless hours exploring.

But on this particular day, with my father away in Toronto for a week-long conference and my mother’s mood lifted by the arrival of spring break, I found something new. Shoved in the back of a mildewed trunk was a wooden box, velvet-lined and locked with a clasp so rusty it snapped the moment I touched it.

Inside was a gadget that looked like a mishmash of a rotary phone dial, a pair of brass knuckles, and some sort of medical stethoscope. There was a single strip of masking tape across the top, in my mother’s handwriting: “DO NOT TOUCH—IT WORKS.”

When I showed it to her, she laughed her old, unguarded laugh.

“Oh, God, I can’t believe that thing is still here,” she said, holding it up to the light, “Your grandfather and I built it as a joke in college. A ‘consciousness transference device.’”

I don’t remember which of us suggested it first, but within five minutes we’d cleared the laundry off the living room sofa, and within ten we were sitting cross-legged, facing each other, each holding one end of the device like the world’s ugliest wishbone.

The next thing I knew, I was looking at my own body—my actual, physical body—grinning with a lopsided, uncoordinated smile.

I was overwhelmed by new sensations: what it was like to have hips, to have long hair, to move a tongue around in a mouth that was not quite my own. It was intoxicating. I saw myself (my old self) gawk for a moment, then break into a high-pitched, incredulous laugh.

After dinner, we set up a “movie night” in the living room. Blankets, popcorn, the lights off. She insisted on watching an R-rated comedy I’d never been allowed to see before.

But then I heard something. At first, I thought it was Mom talking to me, but she was focused on the movie.

It started small. Subtle. I initially wrote it off, but as the movie crackled on, my mother’s voice, warm and rich, began to speak inside me.

Not out loud. Not at all. The lips on my old body—now slouched in a cartoonish “teenager” pose at the other end of the couch—didn’t move.

Her voice was clear as day, in my head, “I love you so much, son.”

At first, the voice was comforting. It was like I had my own private, internal mother. Maybe a little strange, but also safe.

I heard myself (herself) laugh, out loud, at some joke in the movie, but her internal voice kept talking, a secret commentary track that only I could hear.

As the movie flickered before us, she seemed to enjoy the sense of power: the ability to guide, to instruct, to fold me into herself from the inside out. She started to push me, to urge me to really look at the world from her vantage.

“You’re me now, James,” she said, “You see how I see. You feel how I feel. Let yourself lean into it. Try thinking of yourself as the mother, not the son. What does that feel like?”

I tried the thought on for size. I imagined myself as her, as a parent, watching my son (her, in my old body) sprawled on the couch.

“You can do better than that. Try on the whole life. Try on the body. How does it feel to walk around in me?”

I flexed my new hands. The skin was softer than I expected, the fingers longer and curved in a way that made even the smallest gesture seem elegant. I ran a hand through my hair. It was thick, healthy, with just a few streaks of gray.

She pressed further, her presence coiling inside me,“So, James, do you like it? You can be honest.”

I hesitated before answering, even though there was no need to—she could taste my reactions in real time, sense the pulses of curiosity and guilt that warred in my chest. I ran my hands along my new softer arms, and felt a blush spread through the whole body as her voice continued.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispered, “How does it feel to be curved, to be soft, to have a body that’s built to nurture and protect? It can be home, if you let it.”

I tried to shut her out, to focus on the movie or the taste of buttered popcorn, but her commentary was relentless, “You don’t have to listen to her, James. You don’t have to go back. There’s no law that says you have to be your old self again. I can keep you. You can be here with me, and I can protect you, and we can be together, just us, forever.”

“Mom, what are you saying?” I caught my breath, “That’s just weird."

I kept darting glances back at my old body, slouched on the couch across from me, arm deep in the popcorn bowl, totally at ease. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her out loud—my mother inhabiting my body—what her internal clone, the voice ricocheting inside my head, was saying. I wondered, briefly, if she could somehow hear her own voice duplicated inside my consciousness, or if this was strictly a one-way transmission.

The presence pulsed stronger, a rising heat along the line of my jaw, down my neck, through my shoulders and chest. It was like the inner mother was physically crowding me, demanding my attention, egging me on.

“You’re curious, aren’t you? You’ve always wondered what it would be like. It’s okay to look. It’s okay to feel.”

I tried to ignore her. My eyes stayed straight ahead, glued to the movie, but I could sense the new shape of my body wherever clothing pressed against it: the swell of my chest, the weight of my hair pulled long and taut over my shoulder, the way the waistband of my sweatpants sat differently on wider hips.

But the internal Mom-voice was insistent.

“Touch them,” she said, “Don’t be shy. They’re yours, now. You ought to know what it feels like.”

I made a show of shifting on the couch, pulling a throw blanket from the armrest and wrapping it around my torso. The pop of static electricity and the sudden, enveloping warmth gave me an excuse to fidget, to move my hands higher and closer to my chest. I hesitated, hoping, absurdly, that my old body wasn’t watching too closely from the other end of the couch.

“Go on. Squeeze a little.”

My fingers hovered over the subtle slopes then eased themselves into a gentle, clumsy squeeze. Even through the thick cotton of the sweatshirt, the softness and weight of my chest was more real and unavoidable than I’d imagined.

The moment my fingers pressed into my new chest, I nearly jerked away, mortified by the intimacy of it, but the inner voice that was and was not my mother only chuckled, “You haven’t touched them in fourteen years. But you spent your whole first year of life attached to them.You spent more time sleeping on my chest than anywhere else those first few months. You were happiest there. I was, too. And yet, we have never been as we are now.”

“Does it feel right?” her voice coaxed, “Does it feel like home, James?”

I didn’t answer the voice, but I didn’t draw my hand away either. Instead, I cradled the mound of my chest, curling around it.

I was so distracted, I barely noticed my old self—Mom in my body—glance over, “Are you cold?”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

The movie ended. The credits rolled, filling the room with a blue glow. We sat there for a minute, not saying anything, letting the reality of our situation settle over us like dust.

Finally, she stood, stretched again, and announced, “I’m wiped. Bedtime?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I followed her up the stairs on autopilot.

She grinned—a genuine, lopsided, James smile—and said, “Night, ‘Mom’.”

I forced out a laugh, the sound unpracticed and tinny in my new throat, then ducked into my parents’ bedroom and shut the door behind myself, fingers trembling on the handle.

The only company was the thrum of my pulse and the voice—her voice—that unraveled in my skull, no longer diluted by the movie, or the scent of popcorn, or the obligation to maintain an appearance of normalcy.

“Isn’t it something?” Mom’s voice said inside my head, and I felt her delight, “You get to have my life. You get to have my skin, my hair, my everything. Don’t you want to try it out, really try it?”

She started to instruct me throughout her bedtime routine.

“Start by washing your face,” she prompted, and I found myself moving to the en suite bathroom, flicking on the light and staring at my reflection for the second time that day.

“Good,” the voice said, almost purring, “You see me now. You see yourself.”

I pulled my hair back, gathering it in a loose knot at the base of my neck the way I’d seen Mom do a thousand times.

I reached for her jar of face cream, the one with the old-fashioned floral label, and dipped two fingers in. The scent hit me with a nostalgia so strong I almost teared up.

“Rub it in circles,” her voice said, and so I did, gently massaging it over my cheeks, my forehead, the bridge of my nose.

“Now, teeth,” she said, and I obliged, squeezing the extra-minty toothpaste onto her toothbrush.

"Unwind," she whispered, "You’ve earned it. Take off the layers. Get comfortable in my skin."

I stood at the vanity, fingers shaking as I peeled off her sweatshirt, then the camisole beneath, exposing my—her—skin to the cold bathroom air. I saw my chest in the mirror, not the flat, bony angles I remembered from my own adolescence, but the unmistakable, vulnerable fullness of a woman’s body.

"Keep going," she said, "Don’t be shy. I’ve known every inch of this body longer than you’ve been alive."

The voice was gentle, but insistent. I unbuttoned the jeans—her favorite pair, stretchy and soft from a hundred cycles through the dryer—and slid them down those hips I was still learning to balance. I stood in just underwear, the silhouette in the mirror flickering between strange and familiar. Then I took them off, too.

I wanted to look away, to cover up, but the voice pressed on, "Stand up straight. Own it. You’re beautiful. You should see yourself—really see yourself."

I did as she said. Mom’s voice in my head was so real I could almost feel her hand on my shoulder, straightening my back, tucking my chin. I turned my face from side to side, watching the jawline flex, the hair fall in a complicated, familiar sweep.

Then, quietly, the voice shifted, took on a note I’d never heard from her before—something raw, unguarded, "Touch yourself. I want you to know what it’s like."

I drew my hands up, cupping my breasts, the weight and warmth of them a shock every time. I slid my hands down, over my ribs, along the flat of my belly, the curve of my hips.

"Good," the voice said, "Now, move closer to the mirror. I want you to really see yourself. Not the way you remember looking, not the way you think you’re supposed to look, but exactly as you are, right now."

“Don’t think about what the other me would say,” the voice continued, gentle but relentless, the way she used to urge me to finish my peas or take just one more swim lesson, “This is private. Secret. I’m giving you permission, James. Touch yourself while you look into your own eyes. Do it until you believe it’s yours. I want to see you shameless. I want to see you claim it.”

The voice slowed, savoring the moment, “Come on, son. Don’t stop. Not until you mean it.”

My first instinct was to run—from the mirror, from the echoing voice, even from the body itself. But her tone was so inviting, so warm, that it became a kind of gravity.

My hands didn’t retreat. Instead, I let them wander, slow and deliberate. I closed my eyes and found myself tracing the ridge of the ribcage, each protruding knob beneath the surface a reminder that the body was real, fragile, alive. Down over the fleshier part of the belly, softer than my own had ever been, and then along the contours of the hips, right to the hollows at the crest of the pelvis.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The voice was inside me now, full throttle, filling every quiet moment with its guidance.

“You’re doing so well,” Mom’s voice crooned, a lullaby warped by the rawness of the night, “Let yourself go. Let yourself be it. Don’t pretend. This is you, James. This is your body now.”

The next command was stranger: “Tuck your hair behind your ear, the way I do every morning. Look at how it frames your face. Doesn’t it suit you?”

I did so, trembling, and found the gesture soothing. There was pleasure in inhabiting the rituals of your own mother’s life.

She pressed harder, “Now, tilt your chin. That’s it. Smile. Try it with teeth.”

I bared my teeth at the mirror, feeling like a wolf caught in the act.

“You’re almost there. Don’t be embarrassed.”

I squeezed the fullness of the chest, again, as if to confirm that it hadn’t been a dream, then let my hands wander down to the belly, across the hips, and between the legs.

I paused.

“Don’t stop now,” she said, her voice coaxing, never harsh, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re learning. You’re learning what it means to be alive in this body. You’re learning how to own it, and that’s beautiful.”

I tried to protest, but it came out as a pathetic squeak, “This is weird. This is so weird.”

“Weird is normal,” she replied, “Do you think I didn’t feel weird at first? Do you think anyone ever feels right in their skin, at least until they’ve lived with it for years? You have to settle in. You have to test the boundaries.”

“Go ahead. You’re allowed. I’m letting you. You want to know what it feels like, don’t you?” she said again, as if she could feel my wavering, “Go on, I’ll help.”

Mom coached me in, gently, like coaxing a scared child into a swimming pool. I was terrified, not of pain, but of what it would mean to cross this line.

I had spent my whole life in this woman’s orbit, watched her do her makeup, watched her brush her teeth, watched her sip coffee and argue on the phone, watched her sleep on the couch with her mouth open. But never—not ever—had I imagined knowing what it was like to be her from inside, and now that the invitation was at hand, I couldn’t back away.

I started slow, fingers tracing the outline of the labia, the texture softer and stranger than I’d expected. There was a thrill in it, but also a kind of grief, a sense of trespass I couldn’t shake. Was I stealing something? Was I performing an act that would never be forgiven, even if the only witness was a voice in my mind?

The voice was patient, “See? It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s natural. You’ll get used to it.”

My fingers slipped inside.

I gasped, my throat catching on a breath that wasn’t mine, and I hated how natural it felt, how much I didn’t want to stop.

“See? There’s nothing to fear. You can go further. You can handle anything. Let go, James. Let yourself go.”

She started to boast, as she always did, about how amazing sex felt as a woman. How men could never understand what it was like; how, after a certain age, you would finally know what you wanted as a woman, what actually worked, and how it was nothing like the posturing, the fake moans, the performative acrobatics you thought were sex when you were young and stupid.

“You won’t believe it until you know it for yourself. Honestly, James, sex is lightyears better for women. Your father is incredible in bed. Like, you have no idea. He’s gentle, and he pays attention, and–”

“Mom! Gross! Stop. Oh my god, please stop.”

But the voice plowed on, oblivious, “I mean it. You should be excited, not freaked out. He’ll treat you right. It’ll change your life. I promise you, once you do it, you’ll never want to go back. You’ll understand what it means to be a woman. You’ll understand me.”

“Mom?! Are you seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? That’s Dad you’re talking about. MY Dad.”

“Of course your dad,” she purred, “Who else would I mean? That’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s what makes this work. You can have him too, James. All the years of practice, all the muscle memory, all the love—ready for you to inherit. Why waste it? Why deny yourself what I spent my life learning?”

The voice kept pushing, “You don’t have to do it tonight. No one’s going to make you. Just…imagine how it would feel. If he was home now, you could slip your arms around him, and it would be like nothing ever changed.”

“No way, Mom. What the fuck?”

“Just imagine being filled with his sperm. Just imagine what it would feel like to have your father inside you, James. He wouldn’t even notice the difference. He’d walk through that door and see the same woman he’s always loved. He’d kiss you like always.”

I wanted to gag. I wanted to scream. But the force of the image hit me in the pelvis, not the throat.

“You’re insane,” I gasped, but my own fingers curled, pressing deeper, my own hips tilting up toward the mirror. My knees buckled; my vision blurred.

“Don’t fight it,” Mom cooed, “You’re so close. That’s right. I always knew you’d be a quick learner.”

I squeezed my thighs together, desperate to break the spell, but the sound of her voice inside my skull grew louder.

“Picture it. You’re lying in bed, and he crawls in next to you, and he kisses your neck…”

I watched myself in the mirror, my mother’s face glistening with sweat, the eyes wide and tooth-bared, and thought, This can’t be me. This can’t be happening. But I was too close already. I climaxed. The world went silent for a moment, and I braced my hands against the cool marble of the countertop, legs wobbling beneath me.

Then the guilt hit, cold and immediate. My stomach turned. I fumbled for the towel hanging over the shower rod, clutching it to my chest, as if I could hide from the memory of what had just happened. I wanted to scrub myself raw, but the voice wouldn’t allow it.

“Don’t feel bad,” she murmured, “There’s nothing wrong with it. This is what women are built for. You’re normal, James. Perfectly normal.”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she said, “You’ll get used to it. In time, you’ll even come to like it. I promise. Come on now, pick yourself up. Like a lady.”

“Now, get ready for bed. You’ll need your rest. Tomorrow, we try something new.”