Jacob had been ignoring his grandmother’s calls for weeks. He was too busy juggling shifts, bills, and an unreliable car that coughed like it had tuberculosis. When she finally got him on the line, her voice was syrupy with kindness.

“Jacob, dear, I need help this weekend. Just a little thing.”

“I can’t come, Grandma. The car’s dead again. I’m not even sure it’s worth fixing.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said sweetly. “I’ll have it towed and repaired. My treat. No strings. Except… maybe one tiny thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Go to church for me this Sunday.”

He chuckled, confused. “You mean with you?”

“No, no. For me. You’ll understand. And if you do this for me… everything I own will be yours. The house, the money, the land. I’m not long for this world, Jacob. This is important to me. Just once.”

By that afternoon, a tow truck arrived. His car was swept away like royalty. He was handed a replacement�"a spotless hybrid sedan with chilled seats and a minty pine scent.

The next morning, he drove to Evelyn’s house.

It was perfect.

Landscaped grounds manicured to perfection. Every tile on the roof scrubbed clean. The shutters were a gentle robin’s egg blue, with white trim that looked newly painted.

Inside, the air smelled of lavender and lemon polish. The halls were lined with photos�"Evelyn at church picnics, Evelyn with neighborhood children, Evelyn smiling in her Sunday best.

She greeted him at the door with a faint, strange look in her eyes.

“Thank you for coming, dear. I’ve laid out what you’ll need upstairs. Go on now.”

The guest bedroom looked like a museum display: A peach dress, delicate and modest, laid out on a fainting couch. Beneath it, carefully folded, were soft, full-cut cotton panties and a matching bra in a slightly faded pastel pink. He frowned at them.

“No way.”

His hand reached for them anyway.

Jacob fought harder than he ever had in his life�"but the force inside him was like invisible hands guiding his fingers. He shook. He swore. He cried out.

But still, he dressed.

The panties went on�"smooth, tight, humiliating. The bra clasped into place, hugging his chest like a promise. Shapewear followed, binding his waist. Nude stockings slid over his legs. The peach crepe dress slipped down his shoulders like a curtain falling on his former self.

The veil was last. It covered his hair, his face, his expression. Thick gloves hid his youthful hands. Heavy makeup caked over his cheeks and lips in exaggerated blush and deep crimson.

He looked like a grotesque impersonation of an old church lady.

He looked like Evelyn.

Outside, his car idled.

The woman waiting beside it wore a sharply tailored blue skirt suit and heels that clicked with authority. Her features were airbrushed to perfection, her hair pulled into a severe chignon. She looked more like a fashion editor than a driver.

She opened the car door and gave him a once-over.

“No, no. That simply won’t do,” she said gently.

With practiced hands, she fixed his makeup. She powdered his nose. Added age lines beneath his eyes. Dabbed a little gray into the edges of his wig.

“There we are,” she said. “Now you’re ready, Miss Evelyn.”

The church service was surreal.

People waved. They smiled warmly.

“Evelyn! Good to see you up and about!”

He was wheeled in. He tried to speak, to say his name was Jacob�"but only Evelyn’s voice emerged. High-pitched. Quavery. Wispy.

As the organ swelled, so did the transformation.

His spine shrank. His bones softened and bent. His body rounded and sagged. His reflection in the polished brass candlestick confirmed it: he had become her. Not just in look�"but in every fragile, creaking movement.

He was Evelyn.

He returned to the house to find it empty. Evelyn was gone. No note. No trace.

Panicked, he called his mother.

Her voice was warm.

“Oh, Mom, did everything go okay at church?”

“Wait�"Mom? It’s Jacob. Your son!”

Silence.

“I don’t know anyone named Jacob,” she said finally. “You sound confused. Maybe lie down for a bit.”

Click.

He stood frozen in the kitchen.

Two days later, two aides arrived.

Alina and Sera.

They were stunning. One wore high-waisted cream slacks and a fitted blouse. The other favored dresses that clung like second skin. Both looked like they belonged on a runway, not in home care.

They were perfect.

And they took care of everything.

Meals were gourmet. Shrimp bisque. Brioche French toast. Lamb with mint sauce. Cable TV streamed in high resolution. Every channel. Every service. No passwords.

They took him on walks through botanical gardens, read to him, brushed his wig, polished his shoes. They always smiled. They never seemed bothered by anything.

But Jacob learned quickly:

If he resisted, even a little, pain followed.

If he so much as thought of rebellion�"his knees buckled. His vision blurred. His fingers curled with sudden arthritis. But when he submitted, the aches vanished. The comfort returned.

And every Sunday, like clockwork, a new modest dress awaited him in the wardrobe. Pressed. Scented. Matched with shoes, veil, gloves, jewelry, and aged makeup palettes.

He never had a choice.

One Thursday afternoon, he sat on the front porch in a paisley house dress and lace slippers, puffing on a long black cigarette holder. Smoke curled like ghosts in the late-day sun.

Alina approached with a pitcher of cold tea. “You really shouldn’t smoke, Evelyn. Not good for your lungs.”

He gave her a crooked smile, lips dark with lipstick.

“I’m old enough to do what I damn well please.”

His voice rasped like dry leaves.

Then he looked at her�"at both of them�"and his gaze lingered just a bit too long.

They ignored it, smiled pleasantly, and went on with their duties.

He was Evelyn now.

And Evelyn was always well taken care of.

Forever.

End.