Janice, now trapped in her 25-year-old son Andy’s body, looked down at her own face---her 51-year-old face, worn by Andy. The lines she’d earned over decades, the slight sag of her cheeks, the familiar crinkle around her eyes---it was all there, but it wasn’t hers anymore. Peter, her husband, stood beside Andy, his hand resting on Andy’s---on her hand, technically---looking at her with a mix of pity and resolve. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made your skin itch.

“You don’t get it, Mom,” Andy said, his voice eerily calm, coming from her stolen lips. “You’ve been tearing Dad apart for years. The nagging, the coldness, the way you shut him out. He’s done nothing but love you, and you’ve treated him like garbage.”

Janice’s heart pounded in Andy’s lean, unfamiliar chest. She opened her mouth to protest, but the voice that came out was too young, too sharp. “That’s not true, Andy. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Peter and I---we’ve had our issues, sure, but---”

“Issues?” Andy cut her off, leaning forward. Her own hazel eyes glared back at her, fierce and unyielding. “You filed for divorce, Mom. You were ready to walk away without a second thought. Dad’s been breaking his back to keep this family together, and you just… gave up.”

Peter nodded, his graying beard catching the light. “Janice, I tried. I really did. But you’ve been so distant. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” His voice cracked, and Janice felt a stab of guilt, even as anger surged through her.

“Andy, you can’t do this,” she said, her son’s hands trembling as she gripped the table. “You stole my body! My life! You can’t just… take my place as his wife. That’s not how this works!”

Andy leaned back, folding her arms---Janice’s arms---in a way that was so her it made Janice’s stomach churn. “Why not? You don’t want to be here. You made that clear. So go. Start over in my body. I’ll stay. I’ll be the wife Dad deserves. I understand him. I’ve seen how he suffers because of you.”

Janice’s breath caught. The room spun. She looked at Peter, searching for a flicker of doubt, but his eyes were fixed on Andy, soft and grateful. It was like she’d already been erased. “Peter,” she whispered, “you can’t agree to this. This is insane.”

Peter sighed, rubbing his temples. “Janice, you were leaving anyway. Andy’s right. I’ve given you everything---my heart, my time, my life. If you don’t want it, I can’t force you to stay.”

“But I’m your wife!” Janice shouted, her voice breaking. “He’s not me! He’s our son!”

Andy smirked, a cruel twist of her own lips. “Not anymore, Mom. I’m Janice now. And I’ll do better.”

Horror clawed at her. She stood, Andy’s lanky frame wobbling under her control, and backed toward the door. Her life---her marriage, her identity---was slipping through her fingers, and her own son was the thief. Peter didn’t even look at her as she fled, his hand still clasped around Andy’s.

The front door slammed behind her, the sound echoing in her borrowed body. She was 25 again, but it wasn’t freedom. It was a prison, and her son held the key.