When I didn't answer, she continued, "Because it's sissy?" I winced, then nodded."I... it makes me look, s-sil-... ridiculous," I added, in a whisper."You *are* a sissy," she said, matter-of-factly. "And tonight, you're going to sleep like one," she stated, picking up the panties and handing them to me. It wasn't a request, or an order. It was a statement.It turned out to be true.I felt even more deeply embarrassed the next morning, when I woke up next to this beautiful, desirable, feminine creature, in little-girl drag. And with amazingly stained panties, too. They were almost crusty. So were Nancy's. She ignored my glumness, and joked that it was too bad I was so narrow-hipped, or she could borrow a clean pair from me. She kept up her light chatter as we showered -- separately, alas -- and got dressed. She did end up wearing some of my underwear, some of the nasty 'one size fits all' kind. She put it on with a wry joke. I wore boy clothes, from the skin out. She asked me what was. I only had to think back to the moment the doctor told us in a small cubicle sized private office, that James would not see his next birthday. I remember doing the mathematics and screaming in anguish, ‘That’s only six months away!’ I remember how I howled, I remember how I broke down and I remember my wicked thoughts when I looked at Sushi who had sat there in rigid shock, with no outward emotion for either her son’s impending death, or the evident grief of her husband. I remember thinking that it was supposed to be her who fell apart and me who should be the one to remain staid and comforting. I remember the feelings of role reversal and the realisation of inadequacy. Susan pried James from a light sleep in his specially padded cot and brought him into the kitchen. His appetite had all but vanished some time ago. Pills and drugs filled the spaces I suppose. Trips to McD’S had no interest these days. Occasionally though, it was possible to tempt him into eating enough to subsist..
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