I like wearing my mother’s shoes. They make me feel special. They’re thin and sleek with narrow stiletto heels and a little bow at the front.
My feet get a little sweaty in them because they’re made of real leather, but that’s part of their charm. They’re high-quality, and that’s why they’re mother’s favorite pair.
Father doesn’t like me wearing my mother’s shoes. He says it’s not right for a man to do. The first time he found me strolling through mom’s closet wearing them, he gave me the belt.
He told me what I was doing was inhuman. He made me put them back while he screamed at me for hours. He didn’t even try to understand how special they made me feel.
Mother likes me wearing her shoes. She smiles peacefully at me when I borrow them. She never scolds me like father does. She doesn’t worry I’ll stretch the leather or judge me for my quirks.
Wearing her shoes makes me feel closer to her. It makes me feel special.
I don’t care how many times father takes them away from me and hides them in mother’s grave, I’m still going to dig them back up and wear them again.