Pretty isn’t a choice. It’s obedience, worn like gloss.
And he’ll keep getting prettier… until he forgets who he was.

I didn’t praise him.

Instead, I said, “Smile prettier, or I won’t look again.”

And he did. Again. And again. Until the eyes in the picture stopped looking like his. Until the sissy staring back was mine.

His hands trembled in the photo. Cheap wig, smudged lipstick, unsure posture. It was adorable in the way a stray puppy is—useless, eager, filthy with potential.

I didn’t answer. I watched. He begged. He tried being cute. Then desperate. Then silent.
That’s when I replied.

“Put on something pink. Sit on the floor. No talking. Just listen.”