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No one ever said as much, but I think my father suspected I was always different from the other boys. It wasn’t just because I preferred being called “Zaye” instead of Xavier. When he was sober, he’d get this look if he caught me in the hallway near the master bedroom, an expression like a man glimpsing something unwholesome crawling out from behind the fridge.
But he was rarely sober anymore, not since the divorce. The living room filled with booze and silence. The TV flickered like a dying star. He sat there, night after night, marinating in bottom-shelf whiskey and reruns of whatever the remote could hit without too much effort.
I watched him from the kitchen, sometimes. How the glass trembled in his hand and how his shoulders, once terrifying, now sagged under the weight of everything he wouldn’t say. I’d tried being a good son, for a while. Tried asking about his day, cleaning up after dinner. None of it took. The only time he looked at me with something almost like recognition was when I wore something of hers.
The first time I did it was an accident. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, rooting around for batteries in the junk drawer in their bedroom. There it was: Mom’s old lipstick, the color so bright and lurid it could’ve doubled as a warning flare. Next to it, a black lace garter belt and a pair of sheer stockings.
I don’t remember deciding to try them on. It was like the house itself compelled me to do it, the way you find yourself opening a closet just because you know you shouldn’t.
I stood in front of the vanity mirror, lips painted like a cartoon villain, the garter pinching at my thighs. I was nobody’s idea of a woman, not really, but I remember thinking: this is what she must have felt, holding power that was equal parts knife and invitation. I remember thinking, too, that I could make the old man look at me.
And he did.
He didn’t say anything. He just looked, and the glass slipped in his hand and hit the carpet with a sad, drunk thump. He called me “Xavier” even though I’d stopped answering to it. Then he turned the TV up until it was just white noise.
I liked it. I liked it a lot. It was the first time I’d ever crossdressed, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Which brings us to tonight.
There was a game on, something involving men twice my size crashing into each other under the stadium lights. Dad sprawled in his recliner, his belly peeking out from between the buttons of his shirt. The air conditioner clacked and coughed in the window. I could smell the whiskey before I saw the bottle. There was always a bottle.
I took my time getting ready. Mom’s vanity was a wreck, but if you sifted through the hair bands and broken compacts you could find the good stuff; the stuff she didn’t even bother taking with her when she and my dad split. Like she couldn’t get out of that house fast enough. Like if she spent one more minute in the company of a drunken has-been and his little fag, she might have left us in a completely different manner.
Tonight I went with the lipstick again, because it made my mouth look mean. There was a blond wig in the closet, tangled like a mop, but after a little TLC it sat on my head just so—the bangs hiding my eyebrows, the curls falling over my shoulders in imitation of those old photos still framed in the hallway.
For the rest: a black slip, thin enough to show my ribs if you looked hard, and a pair of heels that pinched at my toes. I cinched my waist with one of her belts, the patent leather slick and obscene around my hips. When I caught myself in the mirror, I almost laughed. I looked like a satin-wrapped weapon, loaded and cocked for mischief.
The living room lights were dim, but the TV cast a blue glow over everything, making me look even more ghostly. Dad didn’t glance up at first, not even when my heels ticked over the hardwood like a warning. He was deep in some kind of trance, a glass of amber liquid balanced on the arm of the chair. When I cleared my throat, he blinked and turned, slow, as if expecting to see an apparition.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. But he didn’t sound angry. Not really.
I perched on the edge of the ottoman, crossing my legs so the slip rode up, just a little. There were bruises on my thighs, faded now, the last souvenirs from a weekend spent with one of his old drinking buddies. Dad’s gaze flickered, caught, then skittered away, like a moth to a zapper.
I shrugged. “You looked lonely, daddy.”
He grunted, poured himself another shot. “You shouldn’t dress like that.”
“Why not?” I kept my voice light, playful. “Mom did.”
That got his attention. His jaw clenched, and for a moment I thought he might throw the glass, hurl it right at my head. But he just stared, really stared, eyes moving up from my painted mouth to the wig to the place where the slip gaped around my chest. I felt exposed, but not in a bad way. More like a gambler laying down all his cards.
“You’re not your mother,” he said.
I smiled. “No. But I can do what she did. If that’s what you want…”
His hand trembled, barely. Not from the booze, I realized. From something else. Maybe hope. Maybe hunger. It didn’t really matter. I knew how this went; I’d seen it a hundred times, in a hundred different hotel rooms, with men who wanted to be told what to do and men who didn’t want to think at all.
I got up, moved closer. The air felt heavier near him, thick with sweat and the sharp tang of whiskey. I could see his pupils dilate as I leaned in, could hear the faint, wet click of his tongue against his teeth.
“Xavier,” he said, but it sounded like a prayer.
“Zaye,” I whispered back. “Call me Zaye.”
He reached up and put his hand on me. Not in a violent way like I’d sometimes imagined, but with something close to reverence. His palm trailed over my hip, like he was afraid he’d break me. If he only knew.
“God,” he said, half-whisper and half-prayer. “What am I doing? What are you doing? We… I… no… Xavier, get out of that stuff. Right now. Put your real fuckin’ clothes back on. Please. I…”
God, Daddy was so cute. That stuck-up bitch really missed out.
I smiled, and it made him flinch. “I stopped going by Xavier a long time now, daddy. I’m Zaye. Always will be Zaye. You don’t like it?”
“I don’t give a damn what you call yourself. You’re my son.”
“…are we still a family, daddy?”
“Don’t say that. Don’t make me do something I’m gonna regret…”
He leaned back a little in his favorite chair, but he kept his hand on my hip, gliding it up and down like he was rubbing a magic lamp, hoping for the sweetest wish in this rotten world.
“You have your mother’s hips, I’ll give you that,” he grumbled. “Xav—Zaye, I don’t care how you spend your time, but if you’re gonna prance around in crap like this, do it out of this house, not in it.”
The words had barely left his mouth before I leaned in, draping myself over the arm of his chair like a cat in heat. I could feel the upholstery’s roughness through the slip, every movement a little static shock. He didn’t pull away, not even as my body pressed against him, my lips grazing the stubble on his jaw. He just went stiff as a board, as if locking down every muscle would keep him safe, but his eyes were glassy and wet.
“Zaye,” he growled, warning or plea, I couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered.
I kissed his cheek, letting the cheap perfume I’d spritzed on my wrists fill the air with something cloying and sweet. He smelled like liquor and sweat and something else, something old and wounded, like wet newspaper left out on the stoop. I kissed lower, the corner of his jaw, the soft skin under his ear. He shuddered. His breath came out ragged, like a bag of nails poured over concrete.
“God, you’re a little freak,” he muttered, but his hand never left my waist. It crept higher, fingers splayed, like he was mapping out territory he’d only ever seen from a distance.
I kissed his neck, right where the pulse throbbed under the skin. The sound he made was more animal than human—a low, wounded groan, half anger, half desperate gratitude. I did it again, just to hear him. He gritted his teeth. “Zaye, don’t. It’s fucked up.”
I giggled. It came out high and bright and a little cruel. “You like it,” I whispered, dragging my painted mouth along his collarbone. “You’re not even trying to stop me.”
He grunted, but the fight had already gone out of him. Years of booze and bad choices had turned him into a man who barely had the energy to argue, let alone resist.
“Order a pizza or something,” he said suddenly, yanking the conversation sideways like a car spinning out on ice. “Order whatever you want. I can’t make something right now.”
“Not another pizza,” I said, practically purring. I slid off the arm of the chair and knelt at his feet, heels digging into the carpet. “You need a real meal for once, daddy. Let me cook for you.”
That made him frown. The skin on his face bunched up, all the lines and old regrets deepening at once. “You don’t need to do that. You’re not… you’re not supposed to…”
I shrugged, running my hands up his shins, feeling the heat through the denim. “You look hungry. You deserve better than takeout. Sit tight, daddy, I’ll whip up something good.”
He watched me go, silent, a little stunned. Maybe he was wondering how the hell we’d gotten here, me strutting around in his ex-wife’s slip and heels, him letting it happen because he couldn’t look at me without remembering the woman who’d left him behind.
He slammed back his whiskey, hard. The glass rattled against his teeth. “This isn’t normal,” he muttered, and for a second I thought he might finally do something about it. Maybe shout, maybe haul off and smack me, just to prove there was a man somewhere in that ruined body. But he just stared at me, slouched in his recliner like a king on a garbage throne, all sweat and old denim, mouth slack with the shock of memory.
I waited, letting the silence fill up the room until it pressed in on both of us. The TV kept chattering in the background, blue and white and red streaks painting the cheap wallpaper, the crowd noise rising and falling like ocean waves battering a dead pier. He looked at me with the kind of horror usually reserved for car accidents and cancer diagnoses. Like he’d blinked and found himself in a reality so warped it might as well have been a funhouse mirror.
“Why are you like this?” he finally said—not loud, but hollow, the words falling out of him like the last coins in a busted vending machine. “You could have been… anything. Anybody. You don’t have to… this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”
I shrugged, popped my hip, made the slip ride up my thighs a little higher. The belt pinched, the wig itched, and the lipstick tasted like plastic and bad decisions, but I didn’t mind. I loved the way his eyes flinched away and then came crawling back, over and over, like a dog circling a fresh wound.
“Maybe you should’a raised me different,” I said, putting a little pout in my voice, cocking my head like I’d seen in so many trashy movies. “Or maybe you just like me better this way and you don’t wanna admit it.”
He grunted. It came out thick, almost a growl, but he didn’t move. His fingers worked the glass on automatic, knuckles white. “Fucked up kid,” he spat. Then, softer: “My fucked up kid.”
That’s all I needed to hear. Well, almost all I needed to hear.
I guess I’m the kind of sissy freak that likes listening to his dad moan. I don’t know what he called it, but I called it dessert; when the dinner plates were picked clean and set aside before I kneeled right in front of the man who helped make me. When I fished his hard cock out of his shorts and he didn’t do a thing to stop me except clench his eyes and shake his head like he couldn’t believe it.
He looked down at me with those bloodshot eyes and shake his head like he couldn’t believe it. Then he just let it happen. Which is what always happened, in the end.
I sucked him like it was what I’d been born to do. Not even for the power of it, or the sick little thrill that went down my spine every time his hand found the back of my head and stayed there. I did it because it was the only thing that ever made his face look human.
“I’m the worst fucking father in the world,” he said, but he never took his hand off my cheek.
I put my mouth around him, slow at first. The taste was familiar: salt, sweat, something sour and sad at the base that made my tongue tingle in a way that was almost nostalgic. I worked my lips down, careful not to smudge the lipstick, but also not really caring, because I wanted him to see the streaks of red every time he looked at me.
He started to moan when I sucked him just right, the tip of my tongue flicking at the spot I’d mapped out over months of trial and error. All those years wasted on his ex-wife, and here I was, showing him what a real blowjob felt like. He pressed my head down, not rough, not desperate, but with the slow inevitability of gravity pulling a river into the sea.
“Fuck. Fuck, Zaye,” he said, voice strangled. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
I twisted my wrist just a little, let my tongue flick the underside of his cock, and smiled up at him. Nothing coy about it. Nothing bashful. Just that mean-red mouth smeared and glossy, like a warning label on a poison bottle.
“From watching, mostly,” I said, letting my breath ghost over the head of his cock until he twitched. “Guess I’m a quick study.” I licked a stripe up the thick vein and felt him shiver. His whole body went rigid, chair creaking, like the only thing keeping him in the room was inertia and humiliation.
He tried to say something. Failed. Gave up and just breathed, heavy, like a drowning man finally coming up for air. His hand found the wig, fingers twisted in curls, tugged just hard enough to remind us both who was supposed to be in charge here, even though it was obvious he wasn’t.
I sucked him deeper, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste and the way his cock pulsed on my tongue. He grunted, and his hips jerked up, barely restrained. Half a warning, half a plea. The way he gasped when I took him all the way told me everything I needed to know.
“God, Zaye, you’re such a little…” He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t have to. The glass in his free hand rattled against his thigh, whiskey sloshing over his knuckles and onto the upholstery, but he didn’t notice or care. I licked the tip, felt his whole body shudder. A little pressure, a little twist, and he was panting, fighting to keep his eyes open. He wanted to watch. They all did.
I let him. I wanted him to. Let him see the lipstick stains ring his cock, let him see the glossy red streaks on my cheek, my chin, even on the damned belt cinched around my hips. I wanted him to see how hungry I was for him, how eager. How much more alive I looked in his ex-wife’s favorite slip than she ever had.
His breathing picked up. He was close, so close, and I bobbed my head a little faster, let him fuck into my mouth in short, helpless jerks. All the years of being a disappointment, a freak, a thing slouching down the hallway in borrowed lace—and now? I was a goddamned miracle. I was making his eyes roll back, making him hiss my name like a curse and an apology at once.
He came with a noise that was almost a sob, like it hurt and healed him at the same time. His hand locked in my hair, pinning me there, and I swallowed him down. The taste was bitter, thick, the afterburn of old regrets and too much cheap whiskey. I savored it anyway. Licked him clean, careful and gentle, until his whole body had gone slack and loose, like I’d wrung every last scrap of life out of him.
He slumped back, chest heaving. Glassy-eyed. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and there was a line of drool on his chin he didn’t even notice. He stared at me for a long, shaky second, like he was seeing a ghost. The ghost was me, I guess, with lipstick smeared like war paint and a tongue stained with the taste of him. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even tragic. It just was.
I licked my lips, slow and deliberate, running my thumb along the red ring of spit and cum at the edge of my mouth. “You taste good, Daddy.” I said it just to see what he’d do, and he did not disappoint.
He winced, like the words had teeth. “Don’t do that,” he groaned. Not even angry. Resigned. The world’s last buckled nail finally giving up the ghost.
“Don’t do what, Daddy?” I pouted, all sugar and venom packed into one little question mark. I let my tongue flick over the head of his cock, just teasing, tasting him again. “You don’t want me to call you Daddy?” The word came out sticky, obscene, like honey poured over a rusted razor blade.
He shut his eyes, shuddering. His fist tightened around the whiskey glass. The TV screamed in the background. The air in the room stretched thin, like something about to snap.
“You little…” He trailed off, but his cock jerked in my hand, answering for him.
“What, Daddy?” I batted my lashes, tugging at the wig a little so it slid crooked and desperate over my brow. “Don’t you like having your own little sissy freak? Don’t you like being the big strong man taking what he wants?”
He opened his eyes. For a second, I thought he might cry. For a second, I wanted him to. But what he did was better. He stared down at me, face shiny with sweat and shame, and he sucked in a heavy, ragged breath.
“You are such a fucked up little bitch, you know that?” The words slurred together, thick with whiskey and disgust. “A pathetic pretty little bitch. What kind of kid does this?”
There was heat building in my panties. I could feel my cock twitching, straining against the lace, leaking through the fabric so it stuck uncomfortably to my skin. I wanted him to see it, smell it, choke on it.
I grinned. “Maybe you shoulda raised me better. Maybe you shoulda stayed sober for more than three hours at a time.”
His face darkened and then, like a switch flipping, he lunged. The glass went tumbling. His hand—the same hand that could crush beer cans flat between two fingers, the hand that built a whole house and then tore a marriage apart—wrapped around my throat. Not gently. Not a threat, either. Just absolute, red-blooded certainty.
He squeezed. My windpipe mashed flat. My eyes watered instantly. The pressure was perfect: more than I could take, exactly what I needed. Air rattled in my nose, and I felt my cock stiffen so hard it hurt.
“You want to get choked, you little freak?” His voice was low, almost a growl, almost a laugh. “You want your daddy to fuck you up?”
I tried to talk, but all that came out was a gasp and a whimper. That was it. That was the energy I was trying to coax out of him…
He still had his hand wrapped around my throat five minutes later, when he was railing me into his old mattress, pounding my tight sissy hole like he meant to drive me straight through the springs and out the other side. The room stank of whiskey and sweat and something meaner, something raw, like the aftermath of a butcher’s shift: blood, salt, the iron tang of shame.
His hand never left my neck, just squeezed hard enough to make my head swim, to make my thighs shake uncontrollably. Every time I blinked, little white fireworks popped behind my eyelids.
There was no rhythm, not at first. Just brute force, hips slamming against my ass like a sledgehammer on drywall. The sound echoed off the old, yellowing wallpaper—the wet slap of skin, the creak and groan of the mattress, the grunting, animal noises he tried to smother against the back of my neck. I heard him spit, then felt it, slick and burning down the crack of my ass, mixing with the lube I’d snuck from the bathroom and the spit I’d worked in with two trembling fingers just before.
He didn’t care if it hurt. Or maybe he did, and that was the whole point. And I… I fucking loved it. Loved the way the pressure around my throat made my whole body light up, every nerve ending sparking, cock throbbing in its lace prison until I thought I might black out from how good it felt.
He barked my name—or the new name, Zaye, like he was trying it out for the first time and finding it tasted dangerous on his tongue. Sometimes he called me “boy,” sometimes “bitch,” always with this note of disbelief, like he’d found himself at the bottom of a well and couldn’t decide if the water was rising or if he was just getting smaller and smaller. His breath sawed in and out against my ear, hot and wrecked.
“Fucking little slut,” he growled, squeezing my neck until the world shrank to a pinprick. “You like getting used, don’t you? You want daddy to ruin your little faggot ass?”
I could barely make a sound, just a strangled gasp that might’ve been yes, please, might’ve just been air. I arched my back, heels digging into the battered sheet, desperate for more. I wanted him to split me open. I wanted to feel every inch of him, every ragged thrust, every pulse of muscle and rage and fucked-up, bottom-shelf love.
He fucked me harder. I could hear the headboard slamming the wall, could hear the desperate way he gasped my name, could feel the bruises blooming on my hips where his fingers dug in. He let go of my throat just long enough to slap my face, once, twice, with the flat of his palm, then grabbed a handful of wig and yanked my head back so he could see my mouth open in shock. I drooled onto the sheet, lipstick smeared everywhere, and I didn’t care, not even a little.
When he came, it was with a choked-off howl, hips jerking as he pumped my hole full of his cum. I squeezed down, greedy for it, the burn and heat and mess spreading inside me like a secret only we would ever share. And wasn’t that the punchline? The ugly, gleaming truth at the bottom of the bottle: all the things he’d never say, all the things I’d never be, boiling down to this. His cock shuddering inside me, thick as a fist, dumping shot after shot of spunk right up my guts.
He grunted at the finish. Not a man dying, not a man reborn, just a worn-out bastard getting the thing he needed most. His hips hammered forward, grinding my face into the mattress. My vision went starburst-white for a second. Fingers locked around my throat, squeezing, squeezing, as the first jet of cum scorched me open.
The sound he made was animal. Not even words, just a wet, rattling groan, half a death rattle and half triumphant bark. I swear I felt the mess shoot up inside me, hot and sticky as napalm, flooding my sissy cunt until I could taste it at the back of my throat.
And then I lost it. My own cock, tiny and trussed-up in Mom’s ruined panties, kicked and spasmed and shot a load of sticky cum all over my thighs and the sheet. Messy, embarrassing, humiliating. I loved it. I fucking loved it. I humped back against him, desperate for every last pulse. For the burn, for the ache, for the ugly, secret glory of it.
He kept fucking me through his orgasm, hips jerking, balls slapping against my ass, like he could pound the aftershocks right through the bones of the bed. Used me up. Milked himself dry. And still, his hand never once left my neck. I made a sound, raw and high, as his cock twitched one last time and my ass overflowed with his cum. The slip was ruined, the panties were ruined, and I was ruined, and maybe that meant I’d finally gotten something right for once.
He sagged. Not gentle, not loving, just empty. A man after a three-day bender, collapsed on the edge of the world. His breath sawed in and out of his chest. He wiped one trembling wrist across his mouth. Didn’t say a thing for a good, long minute.
Then, disgusted, he yanked his dick out of me. The noise was obscene—a pop, a wet slurp, like the world’s nastiest bottle uncorking. He grabbed my hip, wiped his spent cock across the ruined lace and my sticky ass, clean-up by brute force. I felt his seed leak out, dribbling down the backs of my thighs, cold and slimy.
He spat over his shoulder, like that might get the taste out of his mouth. “You’re fucking nasty, Zaye. Get the fuck outta here. Go clean yourself up. Go to your goddamned room.”
I pushed up on my elbows, leaking, dazed, my hair everywhere, the wig half-cocked and the lipstick a red smear across my cheekbone. I didn’t move. Not right away. I turned, pouting. “Why can’t we cuddle, Daddy?”
The look on his face should've been enough to send me straight to hell. Not rage, not even disgust, more like a man who'd just realized the poison in his veins wasn't killing him fast enough. He bared his teeth, not quite a grimace, not quite a grin. Then he shoved two fingers in my direction, the same way you'd flick a cigarette butt off a porch.
“Get the fuck out of here. Go to your room. Now.” His voice, thick as engine grease, shook just enough to betray him.
I could've stayed. I could've wheedled, or knelt, or crawled into his lap and licked the sweat off his neck. But something about the way he wouldn't look me in the eye, the way he pressed his fist to his mouth like he might puke or scream, made me want to savor the moment instead. I slid off the mattress, panties twisted and ruined between my legs, cum streaming down both thighs like a badge of honor. The air already stank of us: sweat, booze, old rage, and something sweet that clung to the ruined slip like cake icing gone bad.
He slumped back on the bed, breathing like he'd just dug his own grave. Wouldn't look at me, wouldn't look at himself. Just stared through the dimness, jaw working, probably chewing on the fact that he'd just fucked his own kid and liked it more than anything in his sorry life.
I paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame, letting the TV's blue glow burn his silhouette into my memory. “You want anything before I go, Daddy?” I couldn't help it. Had to twist the knife, see if he bled.
He spat on the floor. “Yeah. I want you gone. I want you outta my fucking sight.” He didn't mean it. Not really. Not with the way his cock lay twitching on his thigh, spent but not even close to satisfied.
So I went. Heels clicking, wig askew, mouth glossy with the taste of defeat and victory at once. I left a trail behind me, lipstick on my palm, fingerprints in the hallway where I caught myself from tripping, a slick little sissy ghost haunting a house that never wanted to admit it was haunted.
The next morning, he pretended nothing happened. I did too. That was the game. He’d bang around the kitchen, hungover, gruff and silent as a grizzly with a migraine. I’d fix my face in the bathroom mirror, nurse my bruises, maybe sneak a little perfume behind my ears just in case.
But night after night, the pattern held. He’d drink until his words went slippery, until the bottle was empty and the only thing left in him was want. Then I’d hear him in the hallway, slow and unsteady, that deliberate shuffle of a man who’d already made up his mind to do something rotten. He never knocked. Just barged in, breathing heavy, eyes wild, cock already out like he’d been jerking off the whole way down the hall.
Sometimes he fucked me like he hated me. Sometimes he just needed my throat, so fast and sloppy I’d wake up the next day with bruises under my jaw and a dry, scratchy ache in my throat, like I’d swallowed a whole jar of thumbtacks. Sometimes I’d wake up to the taste of whiskey on my tongue, or the crusted stain of lipstick I’d never remember smearing, or the bruises bright and blooming across my hips: purple galaxies, painted over the faint trace of cheap perfume and sweat.
He never bothered with a greeting. Not even my name. Instead: a fist in the wig, or a hand yanking my head back by the throat, or just the weight of him, pinning me flat. Sometimes he wanted my mouth. Sometimes he wanted my ass. Sometimes he wanted both, one after the other, like a man determined to wring every last flavor from a dying bottle. I didn’t mind. I loved it, actually. Every time I choked on his cock, every time I coughed or gasped or drooled mess all down my chin, I could feel something in him relax. Settle. Like I was the only medicine that ever stuck.
And sometimes he’d fuck me so hard the headboard left bruises on my skull. Sometimes he’d spit in my face, or slap me, or call me every filthy thing he could think of, right up until he’d bust, roaring, inside me or down my throat or smeared over my ruined panties. He acted like he hated me. Like he hated himself, maybe even more. But when he was done, when he collapsed in a tangle of sweat and silence, there was this look I’d catch, just for a second—a kind of relieved awe. Like I’d rescued him from the worst parts of himself.
I loved my daddy. I really did. I think he loved me, too, in that twisted, secret way only men like us can manage. He’d never say it. Maybe he didn’t have to. All the proof I needed was the way his hand lingered on my cheek in the dark, thumb brushing away the ugly smear of spit and lipstick, or the way his body curled around mine for half a minute, like he couldn’t bear to let me go just yet.
Yeah, I was a little freak.
I was his little freak.
And I was so lucky that I had my mother’s hips, because aside from dear old dad, it was the only thing she ever left me. ❤️