We tore the house apart three times. We checked every surface, every drawer, every purse and pocket and cranny of the garage. We emptied the bathroom trash and the kitchen trash, even the gross bag my dad always left half-full in the can in the garage. We ransacked the cars, crawled under the seats, and upended the cushions in the TV room. I remembered, with a creeping horror, that I’d left the artifact on the edge of Mom’s dresser, and for the life of me I couldn’t recall if I’d seen it since.
Mom, in my body, was desperate; she kept pacing, scratching her arms. I couldn’t tell if she was more afraid of being her son, or of me being her. She just muttered and tore through each room with a silent, panicked energy, then flopped on the couch, waiting for me to invent a solution.
I tried to interrogate Inner Mom, but all she did was cry, then clamp down, then cry again. I had never felt so helpless or responsible or… marooned.
What if the wishbone was in the trash, and garbage day was tomorrow? What if Dad came home early and found us like this? What if I never got my body back?
Inner Mom talked constantly. She ran commentary on every move I made, from how I brushed my teeth. Sometimes she would compliment me, but it always sounded like she was flattering herself: “See, that’s a good color on us. We look strong in that shade of green, don’t you think?” If I ignored her, she’d get sulky and passive-aggressive.
At first, I tried to drown her out with music or podcasts, but her voice always found a way through the noise. Eventually, I just did what she told me. It was easier to go along—choose the cereal she wanted, shave my legs, wear the perfume she preferred—than to endure the constant friction. If she made a suggestion, my hands would execute it almost before I realized.
I masturbated as her for the second time the following night. I felt terrible guilt about it, especially as we were still searching for the device. But I was feeling so down, that the temporary high offered some kind of relief.
I’d tried to do it in complete silence, but she still managed to turn it into a duet.
“That’s it, sweetheart, savor it,” she crooned, “You deserve to enjoy this body. It’s your birthright. You’re home, sweetheart. You’re home.”
I wanted desperately to shut her out, to reclaim the privacy of my own mind. But there was a sick comfort to her attention, a magnetic pull to her affection. It was as if I were reliving every childhood moment I’d ever craved: approval, affection, focus, devotion. She was always watching, always invested, and no matter how much it disgusted me, I craved it.
She’d never let me forget she was my mother. It’s like it brought her joy to know that her son could experience her own femininity so profoundly.
Sometimes she’d get nostalgic, recounting stories from her girlhood.
“I know you think I’m old and boring,” she’d say, “but I used to sneak out to the quarry with boys.”
“I’m not a girl,” I’d protest.
But she’d color in the story with the kind of specificity that made my skin prickle: the heat of a boy’s hand snaking under her bra, the taste of cheap vodka on his tongue…
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