Light, pale and gray, pressed against my—her—eyelids. For one blessed, foggy second, I didn't know where I was. I was just warm, encased in soft cotton, the scent of lavender in my nose.Then I moved.The weight of my chest, the unfamiliar breadth of my hips sinking into the mattress, the ache in my thighs from last night's tension—it all rushed back.
The memory of the mirror, my own hands, her voice.
"Good morning, sunshine," The voice was back.
It was bright, chipper, and utterly, terrifyingly normal. It sounded exactly like Mom on a Saturday morning, about to suggest we go to the farmer's market.
"Rise and shine," she chirped inside my skull, "We have a big day."
I staggered into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror, and relieved myself with a mechanical, detached horror.I washed my hands, staring at the porcelain of the sink. At the long, elegant fingers. The simple gold band on the left ring finger. Dad's ring.
"Don't be sullen," the voice chided, her tone softening again. "I know last night was... intense. But you were just scared. A mother's job is to help her child face the things they're afraid of. You were terrified of this body, so I had to show you it was nothing to fear. It's just... you. You're fine. See? The world didn't end. You just... learned something."
I leaned against the counter, my head bowed, "Mom..."
"Now, we can't stay in these PJs all day," she announced, "And you are not putting those sweatpants back on. You are not a teenage boy anymore."
She guided me back into the bedroom, to the walk-in closet. Blouses, skirts, slacks, dresses. Shoes lined up in perfect, daunting rows. The air smelled of cedar and her perfume.
I reached for the sweatpants anyway, the ones I'd worn yesterday, now crumpled on the floor.
"Ah-ah-ah," Mom tsked, the sound echoing with a lifetime of mornings she'd spent nagging me to get dressed, to brush my hair, to try harder at presenting myself. "You know better, James. Those are not for you anymore. Pick something else. Something from my side of the closet."
“You don’t have to love it right away. You just have to try it. You might surprise yourself.” She made it sound like I’d be letting her down if I didn’t at least make a token effort—and in a way, she was right.
I couldn’t win. She pressed and pressed until I finally, grudgingly, reached into the tangle of hangers and pulled out something at random, just to make it stop.
I pulled out a pair of dark, high-waisted yoga pants—not the cheap kind I was used to, but thick, soft, expensive-feeling material—and a long, cashmere tunic the color of oatmeal.
"And underwear," she added, almost as an afterthought, "The drawer by the mirror. Get a proper bra, too."
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely work the clasp. It was a complicated, beige piece of engineering. The voice walked me through it, patient and firm, as I fumbled behind my back. Finally, it clicked. The straps dug into my shoulders, the underwire pressing firmly, lifting.
I pulled on the pants, the fabric clinging to my hips and belly, then the tunic, which fell softly, hiding the exact contours but emphasizing the overall shape.
"There," she said, and I felt a pulse of her genuine, uncomplicated pride, "Now, go on. Look in the full-length mirror."
I didn't want to. I was terrified of what I'd see."Look, James."I turned.
The woman in the mirror was... Mom. Just Mom. She looked like the woman who drove me to school, who made dinner, who ran the household.
"See?" the voice whispered, and it was no longer just in my head; it felt like it was coming from the woman in the mirror, too, "It's you. You're the mother of the house now, James. Stand up straight. Shoulders back."I obeyed. My posture shifted. The woman in the mirror looked taller, more confident.Clatter.
A sound from downstairs. A cereal bowl hitting the kitchen counter. Loudly. Followed by a muttered, "Dammit."
My 14-year-old voice. My old body was awake.
"Ah," the voice inside me said, her focus snapping back to the present, "It seems... James... is awake."
She nudged me, an internal, psychic push toward the door."
Well, go on," she urged, her voice now crisp and managerial, "Don't just stand there. Your son needs breakfast. Go be a mother."
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