Chapter 3

A week later, I called my mother with "good news."

"I found someone," I said, my voice carefully pitched to sound both excited and slightly secretive. "Dr. Alex Chen. He's a specialist in experimental reproductive technologies. Very discreet. Very expensive."

I had, of course, found Dr. Chen through a different sort of network. He was a disgraced doctor who had lost his license for unethical human trials. Now he ran a private, under-the-table clinic in a dingy office building, preying on the desperate and the delusional for cash. He was perfect. I' d fed him a line about a wealthy, eccentric client obsessed with a "male pregnancy" fantasy, and his only question had been about the client's bank account.

Eleanor practically sobbed with joy over the phone and immediately transferred a ludicrous sum of money to an offshore account for the "consultation and preparatory treatments."

The first "treatment" arrived in a sleek, unmarked box a few days later. It was nothing more than a cocktail of powerful female hormones and a few potent herbal placebos I' d acquired. I' d given Dr. Chen the formula myself.

Kevin, full of self-importance, started the regimen immediately.

Within two weeks, the effects began to show.

"Sarah, I feel weird," he whined over the phone. "I' m bloated all the time, and I' m so tired. And I almost cried watching a car commercial yesterday."

"That' s to be expected, Kevin," I said, my voice a smooth balm of fake reassurance. "Dr. Chen said your body needs to adapt. It' s creating a new biological environment. The hormonal shifts are proof that it' s working. Your body is preparing itself for its great purpose."

I used his own deluded language against him. The word "purpose" was enough to soothe his fragile ego. He grumbled but accepted my explanation.

Then came the next symptom.

I was at my mother' s house for our perfunctory Sunday dinner when Kevin came downstairs wearing a thick, baggy hoodie, despite the warmth of the house. He was shifting uncomfortably, his face pale.

"What' s wrong with you?" Eleanor asked, frowning.

"Nothing," he muttered, refusing to meet her eyes.

He sat down at the table and winced as his chest brushed against the edge. He was trying to be subtle, but I saw it. Throughout dinner, he kept squirming. Finally, as he reached for the salt, his arm pressed against his own chest, and a dark, wet spot blossomed on the front of his gray hoodie.

He froze, his eyes wide with horror.

Eleanor gasped. "Kevin, what is that? Are you bleeding?"

Kevin jumped up from the table, clutching his chest, his face a mask of panicked revulsion. "It' s nothing! I spilled something!"

He ran from the room, but not before I saw the unmistakable truth. He was lactating. The high doses of estrogen and prolactin were doing their job beautifully.

I felt a cold, hard knot of satisfaction in my stomach. I remembered a time in my past life when a cousin of ours was struggling with postpartum depression and the difficulties of breastfeeding. Kevin had openly mocked her. "What' s the big deal?" he' d sneered. "Cows do it. It' s not that hard. She' s just being dramatic."

Now here he was, leaking milk through his sweatshirt in a state of pure horror. The irony was exquisite.

Eleanor started to get up, her face etched with worry. "I should go check on him."

I put a hand on her arm. "Mom, let him be."

"But what' s wrong with him? He looked terrified."

I took a slow sip of my water, choosing my words carefully. "Remember what Kevin said about our cousin? How it was all just drama?"

Eleanor looked confused. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"He' s just being dramatic, Mom," I said, my voice flat and cold, echoing his own cruel words back at him. "It' s not that hard. He' s just emotional because of the hormones. He' ll get over it."

My mother stared at me, a flicker of unease in her eyes. The direct quote was unsettling, even to her. "But, Sarah, this is different. This is my son."

"And Dr. Chen said this was a possibility," I lied smoothly. "It' s a sign that the 'gestational environment' is becoming fully active. It' s a good thing. It means he' s getting closer to being able to carry the heir."

The word "heir" was the magic key. Her worry instantly dissolved, replaced by that familiar, greedy gleam.

"Oh," she said, her whole body relaxing. "A good sign. You' re right. Of course, you' re right."

She looked towards the stairs where Kevin had fled. Her expression was no longer one of concern for her son' s well-being, but one of pride in her prize-winning livestock.

"My boy," she breathed, a happy little smile on her face. "He' s really going to do it."

She picked up her fork and started eating again, her appetite fully restored. The wet spot on the tablecloth where Kevin had been sitting was a small, dark testament to the beginning of his beautiful, grotesque transformation.

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