"It fits you well," you muse, admiring the way the sides of his breasts bulge out of the side of the apron.
Michael tries to find a way to look down at the chopping board without being forced to gaze into the canyon of his own cleavage, flinching as he fails yet again. "Can't I wear my own clothes?" he mewls.
"Good luck finding anything that fits with cans like those," you smirk. "Your mother has a whole wardrobe you can use until she's back. You should slot into her bras nicely. Your hips are a little wider than hers but I'm sure the lingerie will still fit." As he opens his mouth in outrage, you add, "of course, we can buy you a new set of clothes, it will just cost you a month or two."
"...fine."
"Attagirl," you smile. "We'll try you in a few outfits after dinner."
Your mobile vibrating. It's Winifred. "I suppose I should see what she wants." You slip out of the kitchen, pausing briefly to listen to the clack-clack of the knife against the chopping board. He seems to be adapting to his new role quick enough. You hit answer on the phone.
"Hey, Winnie, how's it hanging?" you say, relishing the way the youthful slang rolls of your tongue. Yesterday, a comment like that would have sounded so unhip coming from your middle-age body.
There is a long pause on the other end of the call. You can hear a steady 'beep...beep' and a woman taking a long, slow, ragged breath inwards. "Sweetie..." says the voice.
No other words, just a 'sweetie', but the tone is enough to send a chill down your spine. It is Winifred and she sound exhausted. Her voice wavers and cracks and gasps, as if she's just run a marathon. "I'm calling you from the hospital. It's mother... "
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