Jon stepped out of his bedroom and made his way down the narrow staircase, the long skirt swishing gently around his legs with every step. The house felt both familiar and completely alien, same layout as the one he’d grown up in back in America, yet somehow smaller, more cramped, the wallpaper a little faded in exactly the places he remembered.
He paused in the kitchen doorway.
At the head of the table sat his mother, Linda, reading a newspaper that he could see was called the Daily Telegraph with a pipe clenched between her teeth, a thin ribbon of smoke curling upward. She wore a sharp pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt and dark tie, her hair short and slicked back neatly. Her chest was noticeably flat compared to what he remembered from yesterday.
To her left was his sixteen-year-old sister Zoe, looking every bit the proper schoolboy. Her dark hair was cut short and styled in the same slicked-back fashion as their mother’s. She wore a white shirt, striped tie, blazer and grey trousers. Her chest had also shrunk dramatically.
Opposite them sat his ten-year-old brother Mikey, swinging his legs under the table. His long dark-blonde hair, exactly the same shade as Jon’s own, was tied into two neat pigtails with blue ribbons. He was wearing a bright blue sun dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a matching blue ribbon rested on the table beside his plate.
Jon moved quietly to the empty chair and sat down, picking up a slice of toast from the rack.
“Blimey, look at the state of your hair,” Zoe said with a smirk. “You going for the scarecrow look on your first day at McMillan and Daughters?”
Their mother glanced up from her paper and raised a single eyebrow at him.
Before she could speak, the kitchen door opened and Jon’s father, Roger, bustled in from the living room carrying a fresh pot of tea. Jon felt his breath catch. His dad was wearing a cheerful floral day-dress with a frilly apron tied around his waist. The outfit did nothing to hide the fact that he had a very large bust, noticeably bigger even than the one Jon now possessed. His long dark-blonde hair was pinned up in an elaborate up-do that Jon suspected would reach all the way down to his waist if let loose.
Roger planted his hands on his hips. “Jonathan Michael Gibson! Just what do you think you’re playing at? Your hair looks like a bird’s nest and you haven’t got a scrap of makeup on! No son of mine is turning up for his first day at McMillan and Daughters looking like that. They’ll think I’ve taught you nothing about respectability!”
Jon swallowed. “Sorry, Dad. I’ll go and sort it out after breakfast.”
Roger gave a satisfied nod. “See that you do. First impressions matter, especially in a good firm like that.”
As Roger turned to refill the teacups, Linda reached out and gave her husband a playful swat on the backside. Roger let out a high-pitched giggle and swatted her hand away with mock indignation.
“Linda! Not in front of the children,” he scolded, though his tone was clearly amused.
“Oh hush, you love it,” Linda replied with a deep chuckle, puffing on her pipe. “Now pass the marmalade, love. And don’t forget to pick up more stockings on your way back from the shops later, Mikey’s are already laddered again.”
Roger giggled once more and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Yes, dear. And don’t you be late home tonight, I’ve got a lovely shepherd’s pie in the oven and I want us all at the table together.”
Jon grabbed two more slices of toast and slowly spread butter and jam on them, watching the rest of his family interact. Their conversation flowed exactly like every 1950s sitcom he’d ever seen on late-night reruns, except the roles were completely reversed. His mother talked about the latest political story in the paper, while his father fussed about the garden and whether Zoe’s school blazer still fitted properly.
When Linda stood up to reach for something on the sideboard, Jon realised she was several inches taller than his father. And when Zoe got up to grab another piece of toast, she towered over him as well. The height difference felt deeply strange.
After a few more minutes of their easy, flipped domestic chatter, Jon excused himself quietly, saying he needed to get ready properly. He retreated back upstairs to his bedroom, heart pounding.
Closing the door behind him, he stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The long dark-blonde hair and painted nails stared back at him.
How on earth am I supposed to do my hair and makeup, he thought, without revealing that I have no memory of ever doing it before when everyone else thinks I have years of practice?
