Jess stood in front of the computer, fingers hovering uncertainly above the keyboard. She had planned to reverse everything—bring Jeff back to his original self, restore the balance—but something was wrong. The interface responded sluggishly, and the "Revert" command remained grayed out. She dove into the settings, navigating the profiles, searching for any active modifiers that might be blocking the reset.
Then she saw it.
Her breath caught in her throat as she read the flag on Isabelle's—Jeff's—profile. Status: Expecting.
She stepped back from the screen, heart racing. Pregnant? No. That... that wasn’t possible. And yet, the system confirmed it. Jeff, now Isabelle in mind and body, had changed more than just clothes and roles. The transformation had gone deeper—biological, emotional, maybe even spiritual. And now, there was no going back. Not easily.
Jess stared at the glowing screen. The truth wasn’t something she could bring herself to say out loud—not yet. It would crush her former son. Or worse... maybe he wouldn't even mind.
She clicked the screen to sleep and walked back into the living room where Isabelle sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped around herself, face blank and worn with exhaustion.
Jess cleared her throat softly. "Hey... so, about switching things back... the system’s acting kind of strange. Might need some time to troubleshoot."
Jeff—Isabelle—looked up at her, eyes searching for something solid to cling to. "So we can’t switch back? Not yet?"
Jess hesitated. "I think... we should probably stay like this. At least until you sort out how you really feel. Rushing back into something might just make it worse, you know?"
Isabelle looked down at her hands, silent. Her former son wanted to argue, wanted to shout, but deep down... she was too tired. And part of her—a part she didn’t want to name—agreed.
"I guess..." she murmured, voice trailing off.
Jess sat beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I just want you to be okay. We'll take things one step at a time."
Later that evening, Isabelle wandered into the master bedroom, finding Mike standing by the window, rubbing the back of his neck. He turned at the sound of her approach, his expression softening.
"Hey, you alright?" he asked.
She nodded faintly.
Mike reached out, pulling her gently into a warm embrace. "I don't know what's going on with you lately," he whispered, "but I just want you to know... I'm here. Always."
Isabelle clung to him, conflicted, silent. She shouldn’t feel safe in his arms—but she did. She shouldn’t want to stay like this—but she kind of did. And in that silence, she let herself be held.
The master bedroom door closed behind them with a soft click.
Isabelle slid into bed beside Mike, the room quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant sound of crickets outside the window. He was already lying down, half-turned toward her, his eyes soft and tired.
She hesitated, staring at the ceiling for a moment. The scent of him—familiar and comforting—pulled at something deep inside her. When he reached out and gently wrapped his arm around her waist, the tension in her shoulders melted. She didn't resist. She leaned into him.
There was a time, in another life, where the idea of this would have felt wrong. But that time, that identity... it felt like a fading dream now. The body she wore wasn't just a disguise. It was her. And in this body, in this mind, she didn’t look at Mike and see a father figure. She didn’t feel the bonds of child to parent. Those had loosened, blurred, reformed into something else—something strange, frightening... and warm.
Mike pressed a kiss to her forehead, his voice a whisper. “You’ve been quiet lately. You sure you’re okay?”
Isabelle swallowed. She wasn’t okay. She was a thousand conflicting truths wrapped in a single lie she was trying to live as truth. But when he held her like this, none of that seemed to matter.
“I’m... figuring things out,” she said finally.
He kissed her temple again, a silent affirmation. No pressure. Just presence.
And somehow, as the weight of the day settled, her fears and doubts faded into the background. There was comfort here. Maybe not peace. But comfort.
She closed her eyes.
Isabelle opened her eyes again, the ceiling coming back into focus as the silence pressed in around her. She turned slowly, eyes drifting over Mike’s resting face. He looked so different now—stronger, more confident, more like the man he had once wished to be. But it wasn’t just the body that stirred something in her. It was how he looked at her now. How he made her feel seen, cared for… loved.
She took a quiet breath.
Right now, she wasn’t thinking about who she used to be. Not about Jeff, not about what should or shouldn’t make sense. Right now, in this quiet bedroom, in this changed world, she was Mike’s wife. And he was her husband. That thought alone anchored her in a way nothing else had.
She leaned in closer, resting her head against his chest. His arm wrapped around her naturally in his sleep, and she smiled faintly at the sound of his steady heartbeat.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “But I know you make me feel safe.”
There was no clear path forward—just feelings she couldn't ignore and an identity that seemed to be rewriting itself day by day. And right now, all she wanted was to hold on to the one thing that made her feel grounded.
She closed her eyes again, this time letting the warmth of his embrace be enough. Tomorrow could come with all its questions. Tonight, she was just a wife, curled up in the arms of someone who loved her.
And for the moment… that was all she needed.
The next morning, sunlight filtered gently through the curtains, casting soft rays across the bedroom. Isabelle stirred, slowly emerging from the haze of sleep. Her hand instinctively reached across the bed—Mike was already up.
She sat up, stretching lightly. Her body felt familiar now in a strange, distant way. Not the kind of familiarity born from years of living in it, but like a role she had been rehearsing and had somehow started to master. The weight of routine made it easier to follow through the motions.
Throwing on a robe, she made her way down the hall. The house was already humming with the quiet rhythm of a weekday morning—running water, clinking dishes, the occasional murmur from a half-awake teen.
In the kitchen, Mike was pouring coffee, freshly showered and dressed for work. He turned when he saw her and offered a warm smile.
“Morning, hon.”
“Morning,” Isabelle replied, her voice soft, smooth, automatic. She stepped into the kitchen and reached for the mugs, handing one to him as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
The girls—Jess and Megan—were slowly filing in. Jess offered a strange, searching glance that Isabelle met briefly, then turned her focus to preparing breakfast: eggs, toast, fruit, and a small lunchbox for Megan.
It was unsettling how easily the rhythm had sunk in.
Chores were assigned with a gentle touch. Backpacks were checked, reminders were given. When Megan pouted about gym class, Isabelle gave her a reassuring pep talk without missing a beat. When Mike leaned in to kiss her cheek goodbye, she didn’t flinch. Her body welcomed the gesture—her mind still trying to sort what that meant.
As the front door closed and the house quieted, Isabelle finally leaned against the counter and let herself breathe.
The routine had become her armor. But inside… she didn’t know if she was hiding from the truth or becoming someone new entirely.
Jess stepped back into the kitchen, watching her carefully.
“You’re doing all this like it’s second nature,” she said quietly, not accusing—just observing.
Isabelle offered a small, tight smile. “I guess… I’m just trying to keep the house running.”
Jess didn’t push, but her silence hung heavily in the air.
Isabelle returned to the sink, scrubbing a plate, her voice low. “It’s easier not to think too hard about it when there’s so much to do.”
But inside… she wasn’t sure if she could stop thinking about it at all.