When Marlene returned home from work, she expected the usual grunts and silence from her 16-year-old son, Tyler. He’d been suspended again---something about shoving a smaller kid into a locker. She had left him at home with stern instructions to reflect on his behavior.

But what she found when she stepped through the door made her freeze.

There, twirling in the middle of the living room in one of her old dresses, was her husky son, his face streaked with messy makeup, hair clumsily pulled back with a pink headband, socks pulled up high like tights. He clapped his hands together in delight when he saw her.

“Mommy! You're home!” he squealed, running over and hugging her tightly.

Marlene blinked. “Mommy?” she echoed. Tyler hadn’t called her that since he was four.

At first, she laughed. Maybe it was some sort of strange joke, a prank born of boredom. But the boy didn’t drop the act. Instead, he beamed up at her, chattering with a high-pitched lisp about his “princess tea party” and how much fun he’d had trying on “Mommy’s pretty things.”

She told him, gently at first, to wash his face and change into his own clothes. “Come on now, sweetie,” she coaxed, brushing a smudge of lipstick off his cheek. “Enough make-believe.”

He pouted. “But I don’t like those yucky boy clothes. I wanna wear twirly skirts forever.”

“Tyler,” she said more firmly.

“Yes, Mommy,” he mumbled, defeated but compliant. “I’m a good girl. I do what Mommy says.”

The words made her stomach turn in a way she couldn’t quite explain. It took him nearly half an hour to change. When he came back downstairs, still wearing his old jeans and T-shirt with visible reluctance, he asked sweetly, “Can I help you make dinner, Mommy?”

Marlene, still not sure how to handle any of this, let him help. But his version of “helping” included dropping spoons, singing off-key nursery songs, and arranging carrot slices into flower shapes. He kept calling her “Mommy,” kept twirling, giggling, licking batter off his fingers like a preschooler.

“Tyler,” she said slowly, “Stop. Just stop acting like this. You’re sixteen. You need to… snap out of it.”

He tilted his head, confused. “What do you mean, Mommy? I am acting like me.”